


Stricter Restraint

by samsbucky



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternative Universe - Bodyguard, Alternative Universe - FBI, Assassination Plot(s), Bucky Barnes & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Bucky Barnes & Steve Rogers Friendship, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Romance, Explicit Sexual Content, Graphic Description, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Love/Hate, M/M, Minor Character Death, Original Character(s), Past Torture, Protective Natasha Romanov, Sam Wilson is So Done, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Smoking, Steve Rogers & Sam Wilson Friendship, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2020-03-27 16:12:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 34,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19016326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samsbucky/pseuds/samsbucky
Summary: "Well," Sam focuses on James as a deceitful smirk plays on his face, drenched in cockiness, steel blue eyes glittering with a jubilant and impish intensity. His gaze falls as James leans back, splaying his legs, oozing with power and arrogance. "Looks like we're gonna be spending a hell of a lot more time together now. Didn't think you liked my company that much, Wilson.""Don't flatter yourself," Sam recalls how he has once witnessed footage of this very man slaughter five people in a row with just one solitary shot, reappearing unscathed, utterly apathetic. He gives James' muscles, which bulge against the fabric of his slacks, less of the attention they beg for. He loathes this charismatic convict. "It wasn't voluntary."





	1. O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo?

**Author's Note:**

> hello all! i’ve had this in my drafts for quuuuite a while and it’s because i’m so uncertain on doing a WIP. this is because i have tons of unfinished material in my word docs already, so it’s doubtful that i will commit to this :o/ i will try my absolute best to keep this updated and stuff. at first i’ll be fired up with energy about writing this and then i’ll hit a block. but please keep with me! <3
> 
> just wanna make this clear... bucky is an assassin; he’s not in the mafia like a lot of fics but has the same haughty vibe. he’s a solo guy and his moves aren’t as loud as the mafia’s would be. i also just wanna say he is not a cold-hearted assassin that everyone thinks he is. that will be made clear quite quickly. he has a backstory and a reason. aaand obviously i do NOT support any of the violent acts in this fic. this is just for entertainment purposes.
> 
> i tagged this as a bodyguard au but it’s more that sam has to keep him in check after he managed to get his way outta jail (also sam’s not as goody-two-shoes as he seems. how do you think he got that job? wink wonk)... this was inspired a bit by the hitman’s bodyguard (though criticised a lot it’s still a fun, loveable, easy-to-watch movie imo!) 
> 
> alright! i’m shutting up. bye bye for now. there are descriptions of violence almost immediately by the way.

The triumphant grin that stretches across the shrivelled features of the cop makes Sam's gut twist with distaste. Though he should be thankful for the guy with infrequent threads of black in his lifeless grey hair, gelling them back in attempt to cover his receding, mottled scalp, Sam could not find a speck of delight whenever he found himself in the presence of Malcolm. He comes with all the typical height of a cop - exclusive of the bulk - and lithe muscles that conceal themselves under the crisp, blue uniform. With a forehead that crumples into the pattern of crags and peaks, Sam has always been adamant that Malcolm's face froze long ago into the position of a scowl as a result of countless years of doing so. 

Thus, Sam's astonishment comes easy when he is unable to detect that contemptuous glower; instead, all he can see is the old flame in those azure eyes has now been ignited again. A kindling that Sam knows all too well.

"We've got him," The publication is met with a reluctant silence, unsure, bewildered; multiple gazes are exchanged throughout the meeting room. Sam reclines in his seat, crossing his arms over his broad chest, whilst quirking a sharp brow as Malcolm inelegantly scrambles towards the computer, punching the keyboard with only his index fingers. 'Him' could only mean one specific individual and Sam finds it rather difficult that  _Malcolm_ , of all of the gifted coppers here, is the one who finally ensnared this individual into their mousetrap. Perhaps it is his loathing blurring his line of reasoning when it comes to how adequate Malcolm is at his job. "May I have everyone's attention? Feast your eyes on this," The CCTV unfolds in front of their hungry eyes.

 _"So, what do you say we do?" One of them murmurs, adjusting his lavish suit as the three of them pause at the exit._ _"We make it easy?"_

_"Yes, it always seems to work," Another agrees. There is a low, spiteful chuckle that increases in volume as, in unison, the three men whip their heads around._

_"Who the fuck is that?"_

_"Doesn't matter, because they're going to-" His threat is disturbed by him choking on his own blood, rosy liquid dribbling thickly from where a hurling knife burrows into his neck. He droops forwards, before his head slams against the cobblestones on the street, flimsy as a rag doll, decorating the grey with rubies._  The cops in the enclosed area make disgruntled noises; one even allows their face to fall into their calloused hands, shielding their vision from the catastrophe.  _One begins to flee, desperately scrambling away from the battered carcass that lay in front of them; however, the other clutches his bicep, nostrils flaring as ire steeps in._

 _"You're going to just fucking leave his body? We're going to find this son of-" A gash cuts into both of their throats horizontally, and the serpent figure steps into the street, prowling out of the shadows, as crimson liquid sprays against the parallel wall._  It is him, Sam realises, it's him in all his fucking glory.  _He kneels down next to one of the corpses, uses a pristine patch of their suit to wipe his knives, before twirling them back into the holsters with ease. Abruptly, he halts, gradually spinning on his heel to face the camera that tracks his every movement._

_Almost the entirety of his pasty, porcelain skin is covered by black, aside from the exquisitely crafted metal arm that catches the moonlight, gleaming in the dark. Neglected, mussy tresses frame his hidden face with a few slovenly strays tumbling gracefully in front of it._

"He's not doing anything; we don’t even know if he’s looking at the camera," A cop remarks and Sam notices the uneasiness in his tone; he sympathises. This motherfucker is creepy. "Why are you proud of this?"

"Just shut up; wait and see," Malcolm and his infamous scorn, back at it again, Sam notes. He does not speak, not yet.

 _The goggles and mask are wrenched off; his face is unveiled. He is relatively young, surprisingly so, with high cheekbones and a sharp jawline, eyes steel blue and sparkling with a cruel appetite, lips cherry red and plump. Those same candy lips slowly, gradually curl into an impish smirk; his wink is the last movement seen before a bullet impales the device._  

There is an abrupt racket within the meeting room, and Sam observes as Malcolm smirks, undoubtedly assuming he has made a worthwhile accomplishment. Sam heaves a sigh, waiting for the ruckus to calm. It does not.

"Alright! Alright!" Malcolm roars above the scene, demanding what Sam wishes for. Before he could spit another word from his thin, parched lips, Sam cut in.

"What exactly is this showing us, Malcolm?" 

"It's Sir to you." Malcolm scolds, but Sam does not flinch or apologise. "We can finally lock this bastard up! He makes a fool out of us in front of the camera; he doesn't realise what he has done! He has shown us his face. His mockery of us has resulted in us knowing who he is - finally!" Sam raises his eyebrows as murmurs of agreement follow.

"I'm sorry,  _Sir_ , but are you serious?" This earns him the sight of the muscles in Malcolm's jaw twitching. "You're not thinking of going after him after this?"

"Listen here, Sam, I know you have been bud-"

"Man, shut the hell up." Sam grunts. "It's the same thing with you. This guy, whoever he is, clearly wanted to show his face to the camera; he wants to get caught. C'mon now, do you all  _really_  think that clearly one of the most skilled assassins - one we have been trying to catch for years - would just be like, oh hey this is what I look like, without it being intentional? He's deliberately playing cat and mouse with you,"

"He's got a point," As Steve Rogers waltzes in, a humble silence settles; he is admired by all. Sam's stoic expression morphs into a beam upon seeing his comrade; the only cop he truly seems to be at peace with. He positions himself next to Sam, giving him a quick thump on the shoulder as he passes by. 

"So, what do you propose we do then, Rogers?" Malcolm huffs, clearly maddened by his rout. Anyone who Steve opposes seems to admit defeat within seconds. "We just let him go? When we know what he looks like?"

"No," Steve shakes his head. "We go after him," Sam rolls his eyes at Steve, adoring him tenderly but knowing he can be a dumbass occasionally. "But let's keep in mind what Sam said. This is going to be a trap. We have to have back-up, and when I say back-up I mean  _a lot_ ," 

"That's agreeable," Malcolm nods solemnly, then turns to the rest of the cohort for their support, which they give to Steve's suggestion.

"I've got a better idea," Sam decides, knowing this case has his name written all over it; he's the one that works closest with convicts. "I'll distract him. I'm sure this guy has every single copper marked down in a little diary somewhere, knowing our past encounters. I'm not a cop,"

"You're an exception," Malcolm makes the snide statement.

"This is a team, DeMarco; stop insulting our colleague," Steve retorts. "Continue, Sam." 

"As I was saying, I'm not a cop. Malcolm's right; my position here is an exception. He won't be looking for people like me. We can find him, and I'll strike up a conversation or something. A little chit-chat. Lead him into an area where you guys are waiting, and we can detain him."

"Sounds like it could work," A cop chirps.

"Are you okay with this?" Sam meets Steve's troubled baby blues, giving him a heartening quirk of the mouth.

"Steve, shit like this is how I roll,"

 

* * *

 

"Alright, Sam," Steve concludes the clarification of the procedure to him. "Now you know what you've got to do, are you ready?"

"You're gonna give yourself wrinkles with all your worrying; don't want to ruin that perfect face of yours," Sam ridicules, though endeared by his evident care for him. "If I'm in trouble, I'll give you a call and I'll say something about going shopping with my niece. You'll know I need your help. Don't fret it! I know you've got my back." Steve smiles softly at this. 

"Okay," He nods, turning to the plethora of weapons gripped in the hands of an innumerable quantity of cops who are already situated in the necessary location. "Positions!"

Sam takes this as his cue to depart, nonchalantly treading out of this rather wide alley, onto the chief street. He immediately detects the target, who tugs his tousled hair back into a dishevelled bun with slender fingers that are adorned with lavish rings on one hand, and a leather glove on the other, in the distance. Sam can only view the rippling muscles of his back, straining against the thin long-sleeved shirt without a crimple in sight. Sam is not discouraged by this strength because, damn, he knows how to fight well when he tries, no matter how protruding the opponents' muscles seem.

Sam thrusts his hands into his camel leather jacket, coolly marching over to the marketplace that the assassin moseys around, hassle-free. Sam drinks in the vibrant colours, the aromas, and the ether of the bazaar like it was a tonic. Every stall holder, an amalgamation of energy and approachability, greets him through the compressed current of people. Sam tastes the powered flavours in burnt sienna and wheat yellow mounds, salivates somewhat at the rich, delicious scents as he makes his way towards bull’s eye.

He plays it benignly, exploring the sunspecs stand opposite the felon, opting for a charming pair of  _Yves Saint Laurent_  aviator-style sunglasses to slide on. He gazes into the mirror, feigning interest in his own appearance when his gaze truly goes behind himself, to where the anticipated man stands through the creaks of people, with his shirt unfastened brazenly low and a silver chain dangling from his neck with a dainty, rectangular gem attached to it. Strands of hair escape the loose bun, kissing the sides of his face. He meets Sam's scrutiny through the narrow mirror, and Sam finds himself watching those plump lips pull back to reveal a dashing set of straight teeth, albeit a single one that curves inwards. 

" _Shit_ ," Sam mutters, assuming the worst; he assumes that the assassin knows. Knows about the entire plot. It is unbecoming of himself when he fumbles with the sunglasses as the image of the criminal seems to get bigger and bigger.

"Are you not buying them?" It takes a moment for Sam to collate his thoughts when he sees him up close. The splendours of his face are exemplified; here, Sam notices the glimmer of mirth more in that alluring gaze, notices how long and dark those fluttering eyelashes are and how they cast dancing shadows on his cheekbones, notices the immaculate complexion and unblemished skin that entice onlookers to touch, notices how his pink lips are  _sweeter_  than candy and taunt one to taste, notices how he holds himself haughtily, notices how he utterly drips with arrogance. Drips with appeal. Perhaps that is how he has escaped the grasp of authority for so long; they see him and are enchanted by him, a devil that baits the saint.

Sam is not going to be a victim of this, he decides. That smile could make birds sing all it wants to, but he is a cold-hearted assassin and nothing will change that.

"Undecided," Sam eventually rejoinders, turning back to the stand. 

"You wanna be persuaded?" His voice is effortlessly low, smooth like melted chocolate, as glorious as liquified gold. "Well, I wouldn’t need persuading to take you home with me if I saw you out in those, darlin’,"

Sam blunders; the shades glide past their hook and the man catches them with poise, placing them back correctly on the stand. Sam is unclear about whether he is astounded, as he partially stalls, or nauseated that a despicable man like him is flirting with him. 

"I don’t think I wanna buy them anymore," Sam grumbles, catching his eye. He does not seem dissuaded by this downright refusal, instead a sluggish smile sneaks onto his face.

"Damn. No swinging that way then?"

"No interest,"

"Ouch," He places his hand on his broad chest, fabricating a wounded look. "Shame. Well, I respect boundaries so..." Sam, preoccupied with his own abhorrence, realises this man is about to slip through their nimble fingers again.

"You have no sense of humour," Sam speaks, fighting the impulse to twist his mouth in dismay at what that suggests.

"You had me thinking I read your signals wrong. Seems like I never get rusty,"

"What!? I didn’t give you any damn signals!" Sam squawks in disbelief, resulting in a dark snicker from the other man.

"Ah, so it’s normal for you to blatantly stare at strangers? Got it. I’ll make a note so I can keep my jealous streak at bay," He winks, and Sam is not sure whether his stomach cartwheels, or whether it roils at the recollection it forms of the footage. The men he tunnelled knives into. 

"Your ego is astounding, man," Sam shakes his head, attempting to shake off the grimy sensation about this also. 

"When people  _fuck_  me with their eyes like you did, my ego tends to get fed," Sam shudders at the emphasis on the expletive.

"I didn’t ‘fuck’ you with my eyes. You shouldn’t have ever opened your mouth," Sam scowls, unable to hide his aversion. "Because everything that comes out of it is a load of shit it seems,"

"You’re giving me mixed signals," He laments absentmindedly before beginning to amble away. Sam is hot on his heels. "Definitely giving me mixed signals."

"Let me take you to this good cafe I know. Favourite place. A slice of heaven."

"Lead the way, darlin’."

Sam takes extensive strides to the passage where the others are waiting. Although he is experienced in working with convicts, this man makes his skin crawl. Possibly because of the philandering and the shit-eating grin he regularly wears. As soon as they enter, they are encircled, armaments pointing at his sternum, his temple, his biceps, his forearms, his thighs. Sam reviews the scene as he does not even seem to react, aside from with an exaggerated, substantial sigh. He holds fierce eye contact with Sam as he gives him that detestable grin again.

"And here I thought we were having a good time, Sam."

"I meant it when I said I really wasn’t interested," Sam grits out. "Because last time I checked, an assassin with bodies behind him isn’t on my list of things that turn me on,"

"Your list of things that turn you on? Gotta let me see that; I bet I check at least one bo-"

"Alright, let’s cut this crap!" Malcolm interjects, and Sam relishes in how the man seems to loathe the interruption. Just this once, Sam is appreciative for Malcolm’s discourtesy. "Arrest him on suspicion of murder,"

Cops cage in before gripping his wrists, manacling him and forcing him unnecessarily against the wall. Sam grasps how he had sickeningly allowed them to do so; it is precisely what Sam had prophesied. It seems the man wishes to be caught or is unfazed by his capture. He is shunted out of the alleyway, flattened against a vehicle as they wrench the door open. Just as they cram him in, he looks back at Sam and smiles deviously. 

That is when it hits Sam. He never told his name to this criminal. But he knows it, uses it, flaunts it. Sam curses, making a mental note to tell Steve about this, without Malcolm there to mock how Sam had insisted the criminal would not know him.

"That went well," Steve comments as they return to the station.

"If you call having a fucking murder flirt with you ‘well’ then I’m gonna have to take a long break,"

"I’m sorry, Sam, about that happening."

"He should be used to it," Malcolm chides. "He loves the bad guys,"

"I’m getting real tired of your shit," Sam faces the cop. "Yeah, you got me, big deal. I’m here to stay though, whether you like it or not. It’s been years. Deal with it. And I’m a damn good addition to this force; I get people you can’t afford or be arsed to keep to stay in check. Got anything to say about that?"

"Not another word about this," Steve intersects sternly. "We’ve got bigger matters to deal with. Now, I’ll let you know about what’s just been released to everyone here. The assassin’s name is James Buchanan Barnes. Seems like he has no family. Nothing. Definitely a solo guy, like we thought. Wealthy. Late twenties."

"No family?" Sam muses. "Does he have any close acquaintances? Seems like the guy would talk to anyone that moves if he could,"

"It seems like he’s very much alone, and that’s what he says too," Steve informs.

"Doesn’t surprise me," Malcolm remarks after he finishes fuming. "He’s an assassin. He wouldn’t get close to people in case they give him in,"

"He was too happy to be handcuffed,"

"That’s why I used past tense: wouldn’t. Pay attention," Malcolm fails to keep the malice out of his tone.

"Alright, alright," Steve raises his hands. "I think that’s enough. DeMarco, go to the interrogation room. We’ll be there in a few minutes,"

"Steve," Sam commences. "I never told him my name,"

"Huh?"

"Barnes," Sam prompts. "He said my name when I hadn’t told him it," 

"Ah, shit. He probably knew about this all along,"

"He wants to get arrested. The hell knows why," 

"We can try to find out," Steve motions in the direction on the interrogation room. They both make their way there, finding themselves gawping past the glass at how James Buchanan Barnes is making a cop laugh. "DeMarco, you go in. Change with Harmer. This is not appropriate at all,"

"It would be my pleasure," Malcom enters and switches place with Finley Harmer, whose eyes enlarge like a deer caught in the headlights.

"I know you’re younger than most here," Steve side-steps a direct punishment to this new cop. "But you’ve got to toughen up. These guys... They’ve done terrible things. You saw the footage?" Finley nods, pink draining from his face as if he only just recalls the wreckage James leaves in his wake. "We don’t laugh with guys like that."

"I’m sorry, Sir."

"Don’t let it happen again. I don’t want to regret recruiting you." Finley is then dismissed. Sam and Steve fixate on the interrogation that plays out in front of them.

"Are you going to tell us why you do it?" Malcolm is upright, knuckles white against the edges of the table, as James gazes up at him through hooded eyelids, entirely serene.

"Nope," He pops the ‘p’, before rattling the handcuffs that keep him bound to the table. Malcolm releases a noise of exasperation, dumping himself back down, rubbing his temples furiously. "You know I will tell you one thing though,"

" _What?"_

"Hey," James stares into the glass that seems to be nothing on his behalf. "You’re watching me, aren’t you, Sam? Well, I gotta tell you guys... Got some dashing officers on your team that’s for sure. Oh wait... Isn’t Wilson here an exception?”"

"He knows," Steve puffs.

"His knowledge is freaky as shit,"

"You look surprised," James addresses Malcolm. "Don’t you hate hearing your own words being played back to you? God, you guys really should have listened to the good-looking fella you’ve got there."

"How do you know?" Malcolm snarls.

"I said I’d only tell you one thing," James shrugs. "Don’t really fancy revealing anymore surprises right now," 

"Okay," Malcolm says evenly, and Sam knows that all too well, knows Malcolm is  _brimming_  with rage. 

"Do you want to try?" Steve offers. "He seems to have taken a liking towards you," 

If Barnes had any other profession, Sam contemplates, he would have been thrilled beyond words. Maybe gone on a date or two. Maybe entertained the idea of Barnes taking him home. But he does not have any other profession. And Sam is not going to entertain any romantic idea about Barnes. He sickens him.

"I’ll try. Just give me your phone," Sam requests.

"Alright," Steve does not question, despite the puzzlement in his tone.

"You’ll see," Malcolm departs and Sam enters. As soon as he does, James’ leer expands into that grin Sam is starting to get used to, even though he has hardly been in the assassin’s presence. 

"Can’t keep away?" James joshers.

"Drop the crappy flirting," Sam snaps. James’ grin does not dither. "You know, I never thought assassins would be this irritating. Aren’t they supposed to be reserved and quiet?"

"Met a lot of assassins in your lifetime, Wilson?" James lowers his gaze. "Am I not the only one?" James is too knowing, too close to delving in. 

"Do you get paid to kill? A hitman?"

"Didn’t the big man Rogers out there tell you I work alone?"

"You call this work?" Sam holds Steve’s phone out, clicking into the gallery where evidence of James remains. He whirls the phone around, displaying the cadavers. "Is this ‘work’?"

"Lovely photography,"

"You disgust me. You treat this as if it’s a fucking joke,"

"One day you’ll realise," James attempts to lean back, fails from the restraint, pouts. Sam would have found it endearing if he did not abhor the man.

"Realise what?"

"Just one day you’ll realise," James reiterates ominously. He yawns. "As much as I adore your company, Wilson, I’m pretty tired. Take me to wherever I’m staying."

"You’re staying in a cell room and staring at grey walls for the rest of your life. I wouldn’t be too eager to get there," Sam assures. "It isn’t a nice place. And you’ll be alone. Without a cellmate. All by yourself. Can’t imagine you dealing with that very well."

"I’m used to the sound of my own voice. I’m planning on making this a short stay," James dismisses. Sam snorts. 

"Good luck trying to get outta this place,"

"I don’t need luck," James’ eyes glisten. Sam knows he’s plotting something, doesn’t like how the mischief is James’ stare causes a swell of exhilaration to flare deep in his chest. Sam reprimands himself, especially when he sees the knowing look on James’ face. "I’ll miss you when I’m in the cell though. Pay me a visit?"

"I’m not gonna pay you a visit. I’m not gonna see you again." The thought eases the knot that has been building in Sam’s abdominal, ever since he realised how ravishing and magnetising this man is. "Unless it’s to laugh about how you’re gonna rot in that cell. Alone."

"I’ll be laughing too. Think it will be the happiest I’ve been in my life." The sobriety, the gravity of James’ words unsettles Sam. "One day you’ll realise,"

"Stop fucking saying that, Jesus Christ." At this, James snickers, and as much as Sam detests to admit he favours the fresh familiarity of James’ charm over the rare solemnness he had just witnessed. 

"Got any more to come in? How about that Steve?" James queries. "He’s like an angel, isn’t he? How’s it going, pal?" James waves to the glass. 

"You’re getting what you asked as it’s clear you’re not gonna comply," Sam stands up, opening the door to allow a few hefty officers to enter, equipped to lug James to his cell. "Have fun staring at the walls,"

"I’ll entertain myself by drawing you,"

"Drawing me?" Sam scoffs. "Please resist from doing so."

"I’m not bad at it," James calls as he gets jostled out of the room. "I took drawing classes when I was young! You should ask-" 

"Wow," Steve breaks the silence after James vanishes.

"It’s a good job he showed his face to the camera after all," Malcolm concludes.

 

* * * 

 

"Where's Steve?" Sam enquires after he has finished munching on his last spoonful of his feast, tossing the remains into the garbage. 

"He's out on duty," Isabella answers. "He's also told me to tell you that Barnes has requested to see you. Multiple times."

"Jesus, he hasn't even been here for a day yet," Sam grimaces at the realisation, knowing that James will somehow be a pain in his ass, even when he is under lock and key. "Think he'd shut up if I visited him?"

"I think it would just make him more eager to see you again," Isabella advises. "Treat him like a wasp. If you ignore it, it will hopefully go away." Sam will not admit out loud that a minute portion of him hankers to see Barnes - to see what the foe is up to. This sentiment seems to make its way onto Sam's face, if Isabella's bemused expression is anything to go by. "You're gonna go see him anyway, aren't you?" 

"No,"  _Yes._  "Why would I wanna see that fucker again? He's freaky as shit, and a pain in the ass. He's murdered people,"

"Mmm," Isabella hums, which Sam chooses to discard, as he peeks at the ticking clock.

"Duty calls. See ya around," He nods to the sum of guards, who proceed to make room for him.

"Oh," A cigarette dangles in between James' long, flesh index and middle fingers as he blows out smoke from his lips. He is splayed across his bed, propped up on one elbow, clad in a white vest that reveals the glorious, mouth-watering, defined muscles of one arm and the intricately made metal arm. His hair remains in a bun. Sam dismisses the glee that is clear on the convict's face. "Romeo decides to finally show up. I've been callin' for you. Waiting up for you. Shame that you're associated with cops; wherefore art thou?"

"I think I'm going to throw up," Sam remarks.

"I aim to please," Sam watches intently as James hollows his cheeks lewdly, eyelashes dusting over his skin as he inhales acutely, mouth wrapped tightly around the white stick. Sam swallows, reluctant to acknowledge the effect that would have on anyone, not just himself. He shifts his gaze swiftly, before James catches his slight ogle. The smoke loops around James' head, almost like a halo. Sam laughs to himself at the ironic thought. "You should laugh more often. Looks good on you," 

"Wait," Sam narrows his eyes at him. "How did you even get a hold of cigs?" 

"I make buddies everywhere I go, Wilson," James examines his cigarette with little interest. "Even cops seem to like me," He bats those long eyelashes. Unreasonably long, Sam thinks. "Workin' on getting the cop 'exception' to like me though,"

"Cops gave you the cigs!?" Sam grills, aghast. He turns to the adjacent individuals, who all seem incapable of meeting his eye. "Thanks for telling me, Barnes. I'll make sure you don't get these privileges again,"

"God, do you ruin all the fun wherever you go?" James protests, before taking another drag of his cigarette; this time it is a little hastier, a little sharper, a little more bitter. The sensuality of it is not lost though. James surges from his bed and slinks towards the barred front of the cell, slender fingers snaking around the poles. Sam is hyper-aware of the fact this criminal is inches away from him, breath mingling, inviting fingers almost skimming his chest. He refuses to step back, knowing James would assume the action is out of fright. He remains close to the villain instead, glaring into seductive blue, attempting to overlook how his heart rate accelerates, how he exhales slightly heavier than usual. Smoke from James’ mouth brushes directly against his face; it is rather erotic.

"You're disgusting," He knows that James knows otherwise.

"Why have you come to see me then, Romeo?" He stubs out his cigarette against the wall.

"You wouldn't stop asking for me," 

"That," James smiles, gleaming teeth and all. Sam is gratified for that solitary crooked tooth, otherwise he would have gone mad at how faultless James appears. It seems even that tooth is against him, however; Sam is powerless to look anywhere else aside from that flushed mouth. "Is because I want to tell you something very significant, Wilson. You better listen closely," Sam moves his gaze, crossing his arms over his chest with a mistrustful expression.

"Go on then. Stop wasting my time."

"Let's say I do kill," James draws out the last letters leisurely, holds eye contact with Sam. Sam knows this game, knows that he is attempting to daunt him. "They're not just random, guiltless innocents. They're shit people with shit regimes. They ruin lives."

“That’s a confession, you do realise that?”

“I said 'let's say I do kill'; it's hypothetical, Wilson. But they are the ones who ruin lives,”

"And in turn, you ruin, not only their lives, but their families too? Their mothers' lives? Their fathers' lives? Their brothers' lives?" James' face remains apathetic. "Their sisters' lives?" This causes James to jolt away, as if he has been scalded, causing Sam’s curiosity to peak. Has he struck a nerve?

"I wouldn't be on their level," James rolls his shoulders, the sound of his metal arm collaborating with his movements fills the stillness.

"I'm sorry, James, but there are photos of the corpses. There is footage of you being proud of what you have done. The men you have killed? Cops have found nothing on them, believe me they've tried. But still, they had to go to their doors, and kill their families too with their soft spoken words, saying how their loved one is dead. Because of you. That's on you, Barnes. It's. All. On. You." Silence again. "What? No snide remark to that?"

James yawns piercingly, deliberately obnoxious. "Sorry, I was getting a bit bored with your rambling." 

"You're a joke,"

"I'm well aware," James returns to his initial position. "Also, what's with calling me James? My friends call me Bucky aside from one." 

"I'm not your friend," Sam growls. "And never will be. I highly doubt you even have any friends. This has just proven coming to see you has been a waste of time. You've wasted my time with your awful attempt at justifying your actions."

"Alright, pal. If that's how you wanna be, I'll lay off. I'll step back. As I said before, I respect boundaries. Just know, I'm always here if you wanna come visit me," He blows a kiss. 

"That will never happen. I will never see you again," As the words leave Sam's lips - like a spell, a wish - Steve boisterously arrives at the cell with a few other officers.

"Sam, we have a lot to talk about." Steve announces as James raises his eyebrows. "He can come out,"

" _Excuse me?_ " 

"We've made a compromise," Steve barks back at Sam’s wrath, making it evident there will be no objections.

"A compromise?" Sam repeats, incredulous. "A compromise. You cops aren't giving a fucking assassin a bail, are you? He made a confession!"

"I made a hypothesis; that's not a confession,"

"Yes and no," Steve accounts, ignoring James' interjection; whether he is disconsolate with Sam or the entire situation remains indistinct. "Half of the compromise is bail. The other half..." He does not finish.

"Who the fuck would want to bail him out? I thought he worked alone,"

"Soooo..." James speaks loudly. "Are you gonna let me out now?" He smiles sweetly at Sam, and Sam covets to punch that smile off of his stupid fucking flawless face. 

"Fuck you, Barnes." 

"I've been trying to get you to," James slickly retorts as the gates open and officers immediately clench hands around him. Sam trails after the officers, losing Steve as he blends into the blotch of navy, until they reach the very woman the cops have 'compromised' with. 

"This is Natasha Romanoff," Snowy skin juxtaposes stunningly with the rosy elegance of hair, as a self-assured smirk plays on her features; her dominating stance commands respect from all.

"Natalia," James breathes, relieved, and Sam finds himself astonished at the fond, soft expression Natasha gifts him.

"You owe me big time, soldier." Natasha states. "Мы поговорим позже,"

"Я объясню," James assures. Sam's resentment heightens. 

"Enough of the Russian!" A cop exclaims. Natasha adroitly signs a few forms, humming with childlike joy to herself as if this is an everyday occurrence for her.

"Alright, first half done." Steve hands the forms to another cop. "Second half, I'm afraid may not be as simple,"

"Can someone please tell me what the hell is going on!?" Sam blurts out. “He confessed!”

"I can see that," Natasha reports to Steve. "James, is this the fella you were talking about?" Sam splutters, mystified at how Natasha knows who he is when James has been inaccessible for most of this time.

"Think you should introduce yourself, Romeo."

"Alright,  _Juliet_." Sam jeers. James has the pretty face to suit it too. "Sam Wilson. I work with the cops,"

"Oh I know," Natasha's eyes twinkle.

"Sam, can I have a moment?" Steve inquiries. "Brooks, sort the rest of this out for me please. We will be back shortly. Don't release him until we are." 

"Understood," Steve tugs him by the elbow into a dwindling, narrow hallway, away from the disconcerting situation. 

"What's going on?" Sam interrogates. "How has she just shown up and an assassin has gotten bail? When he practically confessed to me, in the flesh, just a second ago!"

"It's not just bail," Steve educates. "Sam, I'm sorry to say this but this is your next job."

"Haha," Sam forces out dryly. "Funny joke,"

"I'm not joking. Romanoff came in with persuasion I have never seen before, knowledge I have never seen before, a defence attorney I have never seen before. She offers a lot of money to bail him out, as well as expressing that the true assassin is someone who has been pretending to be him,"

"He's... An assassin! He winked at the camera!" Sam bellyaches. "Is everyone fucking blind?"

"No, they're not blind," Steve challenges. "But Romanoff brought evidence to the table of a doppelgänger. Zemo has murdered dozens; we’re already on his tail. He kills exactly how Barnes kills."

"He's a copycat killer. How has this Romanoff explained the metal arm? The confession?"

"Zemo is always covered from head-to-toe, only eyes and nose visible. She says Barnes' footage is also Zemo, that Barnes and Zemo have history. He's trying to get an innocent caught. Romanoff even has a voice recording of him saying so, saying how he will destroy Barnes. This evidence is heavier than a hypothetical confession. Told you she's good, Sam. And that is only half of it. As I said, this is your next job. You are going to be Barnes' bodyguard,"

"Bodyguard." Sam says, unhurriedly, full of spite. "Is that what you guys call my work now, huh? A little more respectful than a kiss ass to the bad guys then," 

"Sam," Steve warns. "You know I don't want this; you know I've never thought that about you. I'm sorry. I tried to fight against this and usually I win but..." He shakes his head. "Not this time. Romanoff has skills, knowledge, persuasion, even  _evidence_. She brought it all to the table, and so much more than a 'what-if' to the table. It's been agreed he may be released, as long as you are there to keep him in check. Keep an eye on him constantly. To make sure he stays in line. To make sure if he does do something, he's caught. For good this time."

"I can't believe this is happening," Sam closes his eyes briefly.  _That will never happen. I will never see you again._ He had practically set up his own fate. "I've got to be in the company of an assassin for how long?"

"You know how long, Sam. You've done this before."

"Yeah but the assassins are usually not as up their own ass as he is. They're usually bearable," Sam pinches his nose. "This is a fucking nightmare, Steve."

"I know. I'll try and get you out of this as soon as I can. We just need more evidence to counter Romanoff's argument, and then she will be jailed too for false evidence."

"There is literal footage of the guy; what other evidence can we get?" 

"Higher quality. Evidence that doesn't make him look like the doppelgänger Romanoff has presented."

"Can I just quit my job?" Sam grouses. "Why has this gotta be the only place I can go to? Practically torture to spend five minutes with the guy, let alone..." Sam groans louder this time, irritation bubbling to the surface. At least other guards will take over the watch at night; that will be an escape for Sam. "Is he being released today?"

"Yes. Are you okay?"

"I'm not upset; I'm not gonna go wail about it. I'm just pissed off." Sam feels conquered. "I'll go get my shit together." Steve watches sombrely as his comrade exits turbulently. By the time Sam has returned, James is lolling on the yielding settee in the reception, beaming brighter than the goddamn sun, while Natasha discusses with the cops, bewitching them the same way James Barnes enthrals everyone else. Sam plonks himself opposite the criminal, suitcase crammed, briefcase in hand.

"Well," Sam focuses on James as a deceitful smirk plays on his face, drenched in cockiness, steel blue eyes glittering with a jubilant and impish intensity. His gaze falls as James leans back, splaying his legs, oozing with power and arrogance. "Looks like we're gonna be spending a hell of a lot more time together now. Didn't think you liked my company that much, Wilson."

"Don't flatter yourself," Sam recalls how he has once witnessed footage of this very man slaughter five people in a row with just one solitary shot, reappearing unscathed, utterly apathetic. He gives James' muscles, which bulge against the fabric of his slacks, less of the attention they beg for. He loathes this charismatic convict. "It wasn't voluntary."

"Makes me wonder how you got this job. Seems rather specific. Usually it's just a couple cops with house arrest,"

"Quit wondering; you're not gonna find out," 

"We're gonna have to find something to talk about to fill these hours," James stretches his arms, situating his hands behind his head. Sam allows himself to get a respectable view of James’ impeccable physique just once: legs spread, muscles protuberant, chest heaving against the thin fabric of his vest, slacks squeezing his thighs. Absolutely  _dripping_  with appeal. James feels his weighty gaze and smirks knowingly, idly. "On second thoughts, I think we're gonna be just fine." 

"James, let's go." Natasha commands. James ascends, summoning Sam to come hither with a bent finger. Sam rolls his eyes and hauls his abruptly hefty form out, resting at the doorway to squint back at the cops. Some of them seem condoling, particularly Steve. Malcolm simpers, making venom throb through Sam's arteries. Withdrawing from the scene, he gawks at the midnight, refurbished '60s Chevrolet they head towards, unable to prevent himself from marvelling at the splendid antique.

"She's a beauty, isn't she?" James rests against the side of the open-roofed car. Sam disregards him; instead, he positions himself beside Natasha who had popped open the sleek boot, unloading Sam's possessions into it. 

"Get in, boys; I'll drive." Natasha orders as Sam clambers into the back. James begins to slither into the seat beside him; however, Sam prevents him doing so.

"Don't even think about. Sit in the front." 

"Don't you wanna keep an eye on me?"

"I can see you better in the front," 

"О, он милый!" Natasha sniggers.

"Занижение. Чертовски божественно." Sam is enamoured by the captivating language, how it rolls luxuriously off of James’ tongue. James twists around to face Sam. "Bet the Russian bothers you,"

"No,"

"Oh?" He quirks a brow. "Do you like it then?" 

"Shut the fuck up, Barnes."

"I'm gonna take that as a yes,"

"Я не удивлюсь, если он в итоге убьет тебя," Natasha chortles.

"Я хотел бы увидеть его попробовать. Он полюбит меня, прежде чем ты это узнаешь." Sam slips out of the conversation, to dwell upon his future and his welfare in the presence of James Buchanan Barnes. He closes his eyes for a few elongated moments. Cops take advantage of what they have, he knew. They take advantage of him and his position. He's the exception.

Natasha smiles at him through the rear-view mirror. He nods back. James adjusts the radio and Sam finds himself observing his every move - it is his job after all - as he sings softly, as he drums his fingers (without rings this time), as he tips his head back, exposing his untainted neck. Sam watches as his Adam's apple bobs when he swallows, still droning to himself. He is fascinated by how smooth, how suave an unlawful fiend like James could be. He is absorbed in the pastel, pristine skin, ignorant to how James is now returning his contemplation, witnessing the open hunger Sam fails to guard.

"You and your mixed signals, Wilson." 

"I'm not giving you mixed signals." Sam breaks free from James’ enrapturement. "I'm giving you one signal: it is to get as far away from me as you can. I've made my opinion on you clear."

"Cold-hearted murderer, yeah I get it." James’ arms reach towards the sky, breeze whipping through the dips of his digits. "It's a shame the furthest I'll be able to get away from you is a few metres considering your new job," 

"You're relishing this, aren't you?"

"Of course I am," James confirms. "Who wouldn't want a catch like you in their presence constantly?"

"The sentiment will never be returned,"

"We'll see about that, Wilson."

"James can be a charmer when he wants to be," Natasha joins in, grinning at Sam's appalled expression.

"You know what he's done, right? You know it wasn't a doppelgänger?"

"Oh, Sam." Natasha removes her concentration from the road fleetingly. "I know much, much, much more than you think you know about James."

Sam seethes soundlessly; this confirms his thought that Natasha knows precisely what James is, exactly what he does... And remains aloof. He seethes soundlessly because he now has to be in the presence of an assassin, an assassin who is remarkably jovial, who claims to be the one slaughtering 'shit people with shit regimes' but seems to pamper in others' anguish. He seethes soundlessly because none of this moves the man, none of this affects him at all; in fact, he revels in this too, revels in how he gets to accompany Sam, disorder his mind, burrow himself beneath his rich skin. He seethes soundlessly because James Buchanan Barnes is fucking  _perilous,_ and Hell, Sam does not desire to be spellbound by him. He will never even be  _friends_ with this guy; the shit he has done exceeds all of the crooks Sam has encountered.

Sam seethes soundlessly. It is a tedious journey.

 

* * *

 

**TRANSLATIONS (PROBABLY INACCURATE RUSSIAN THERE OOPS):**

**1) Natasha: Мы поговорим позже. = we'll talk later.**  
**2) Bucky: Я объясню. = I will explain.  
** **3) Natasha: О, он милый! = Oh, he's cute.**  
**4) Bucky: Занижение. Чертовски божественно. = Understatement. Damn divine.**  
**5) Natasha: Я не удивлюсь, если он в итоге убьет тебя. = I won't be surprised if he eventually kills you.**  
**6) Bucky: Я хотел бы увидеть его попробовать. Он полюбит меня, прежде чем ты это узнаешь. = I would like to see him try. He will love me before you know it.**

**Please read the notes at the beginning and the notes at the end. Sorry if this seems like a mess at the moment but I'm actually SUPER EXCITED to post my first WIP! :D**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello again! thanks for reading the first chapter :D i’m so nervous to be posting a WIP!!!! can’t stress that enough ahhh. but here we goooo. also i love discussions in the comments so feel free to speculate there i reply to all comments :o) i'm very scared and nervous to post this (i say for the hundredth time)... also the whole cop thing is messy alright I GET IT it just seems like a bunch of cops just running around not doing shit but tbf there isn't gonna be too much of that now... aside from steve being there sometimes. i'm sorry if this is just a MESSSSSSSS i'm so reluctant to post this :|  
> me: literally an english literature with creative writing student  
> also me, finally publishing some of my writing: [distant screaming] [irrepressible urge to delete everything]


	2. Plato's Phaedrus

“Welcome to my humble abode,” James jolts the ornately carved door, forcing it to welcome new visitors, before treading backwards, permitting Sam to enter first. Sam consciously chooses not to thank the contemptible man; instead, he crosses the threshold, examining every inch of the home, keen to find a fleck of who James truly is engrained within the interior.

It is excessively spacious, reminding Sam of an unfurnished house for sale rather than a serene, inhabited domicile. He scrutinises for a trace of character, an inch of oak that does not suggest an appointed designer conjured it. The floorings are rich timber, untarnished by footprints and barren of dust; the walls are soaring, unspoilt, dyed in white. There is a Scandinavian futon, black with silver thread embroidered deftly. Sam detects a few sophisticated bookshelves, etched sumptuously with striking autumn floras, that hold an organised heaven of literature and flicks. A splendid, mechanic hearth is opposite the sofa with an ovate, unsullied table in-between. There is far too much space amid every furniture piece, Sam notes uncomfortably. There are no personal photographs. James merely watches as Sam fails to derive elements of James’ personality from the area.

“Alright, boys. I’m off now. You’re welcome for the lift, James. I’ll text you later.” Sam, too concerned with how unadorned the house is, does not respond to Natasha or react to James bidding farewell either.

“Don’t you like it?” James startles Sam somewhat as he appears beside him. “I think it’s pretty functional,”

“It’s suspicious, not functional. There is nothing here to suggest you have a personality. Or, if you do have one, it’s boring as hell. It’s the opposite of what I was expecting.”

“Oh, is this a compliment I hear? Are you saying I’m not ‘boring as hell?”

“I’m saying your house is,”

“So, I’m not. Wonderful. Glad to know you find me enthralling,” Sam does not reward him with a response. James, untouched by this indifference, motions to the baggage Sam clasps in his hand. “Having a little sleepover, are we? I thought other officers were takin’ over at night. Although, can’t say I’d complain if you were staying the night…”

“No common sense,” Sam rests the valise flat upon the elliptical table, unfastening it to divulge three distinct weaponries: a lustrous semi-automatic, single shot pistol; a selective-fire, magazine-fed personal defence weapon and a penetrating, polished knife. They nestle upon a sharp suit beneath. “I’d never be in your irritating presence for longer than I have to. I’m not playing pals with you, James; I think you forget how fucking dangerous you are.”

“Dangerously handsome,” James waggles his eyebrows and Sam heaves a sigh, liberating all of the qualms that unfurl in his chest in this substantial breath. Which is, by the way, a lot of qualms as he finds himself associated with James.

“Just dangerous.”

“These are gorgeous,” James purrs, slim fingers hovering above the personal defence weapon. “Oh, this surprises me. You got the FN-P90. 50-round magazine horizontally above the barrel, an integrated reflex sight and fully ambidextrous controls. Nice. It’s neat. Simple blow-back automatic weapon. Can penetrate soft body armour, good in tight spaces. So, Wilson, if we’re doing 7-Minutes-In-Heaven you can still get me with this beauty. Prefer this to the Heckler and Koch MP7 then?”

Sam is too immobilised to form an adequate response; the knowledge sinuously slipping off of James’ tongue alarms him, as well as rousing a deep sense of awe and exhilaration. It makes James’ astuteness almost tangible; he is not some thoughtless, incompetent, impulsive killer. He is shrewd, masterful beyond words, entrancing others with this aptitude. Coupled with his facetiousness, Sam finds himself enraptured as James does not wait for a response about the FN-P90’s rival; he simply continues blathering, tracing the length of it, before flexing his fingers around the trigger.

Sam comprehends, shortly after James quietens down as he is rapt by the ordnance, that James is far more daunting than he formerly believed. His proficiency may present him as indubitably fascinating; however, it also accentuates the fact this man _knows his shit._ He is not impetuous when he slays; he is controlled, precise, slick. An organised, chilling destroyer. _And is currently holding your weapon, Wilson._ Sam thinks to himself. _Oh shit, he’s holding a weapon._

Sam, with haste and urgency, snatches James’ wrist, forcefully seizing the bottom of his palm, gripping the weapon also.

“Put it down,” Sam commands, virtually snarling, scowling unswervingly into those blue, blue eyes that blaze with sincere delight. Sam almost _senses_ Plato’s allegory of the chariot unfolding inside him. The chariot hauled by two winged horses, one mortal and the other immortal. He feels the desolate side of him plead him to allow James to have this enjoyment, beg him to let this criminal get his own way. Sam gazes into those big, big eyes with those _unnecessarily long_ eyelashes, as James blinks sensually slow. Those eyes belong to an assassin.

He heaves his foolishness aside, hardening his glare.

“Put the fucking weapon down, Barnes, before I call the cops.”

“Already? It’s been a hot minute, Wilson,” James chuckles, clearly amused. “No wonder why you’re called an exception. Can’t even deal with a nice guy checkin’ out a submachine gun by himself,”

“I can handle you,” Sam grits out. “Now put it down. Or this won’t end well.”

“God, why have you gotta be so hot when you’re pissed? This is sweet torture, y’know? Love to have you but I can’t. So out of reach, Romeo.”

“Shut the fuck up. Put it down. I’m not gonna ask you again,”

“Oh, come on, darlin’. Just let me hold it once. It’s been a long time since I willingly held one of these,”

“A long time?” Sam scoffs. “I highly doubt that. Did you even hear yourself when you were talking about this? Shit like that reminds me what you need to get locked up and fast. I don’t know how the fuck Romanoff got you out, but next time… When I really get you… You’re not getting out anytime soon,”

“I’d never use it against you, Wilson.” James pushes out his bottom lip. _Brat._ “Please?”

“Put. It. Down.” Sam punctuates each word, jaw muscles pressing out against his dark skin. When James does not yield, Sam, without reluctance, shoves James vehemently. The shock is sufficient, giving Sam time to wrench the FN-P90 free and secure his suitcase, swiftly, as the convict regains his footing. “Shouldn’t have shown you that. What the fuck was I thinking? Fuck knows if you’re gonna use it.”

“Feisty, but I don’t need to use your precious tools,” James pauses, reaches out, hands hovering above Sam’s broad chest, not quite touching, not quite giving. “But damn, you got a lot more strength than I thought you have,” Sam realises, as his eyes are glued to James’ hands, that he is considerably more touch-deprived than he thought.

He shifts his regard, deciding to concentrate on how James’ vest is fairly crinkled, so dissimilar to how his steamed shirt was when he first witnessed him in person. Roving the body of James, he spots how one shoulder is now more perceptible as the vest tugs to one side. There, a mottled clump of scars expose themselves, directly around where the metal arm slices into skin, almost like outstretched, sprouting branches of a rosy sapling. They still appear fresh and raw, branded into milky skin, searing snow with a sweltering red. But Sam knows, regardless of this, that the elevated bumps of skin are ancient. He knows – somehow – that they manifested into pristine skin long ago. Sam has found another element of James, in conjunction with that one twisted tooth, that is not as unspoiled as he previously thought.

“Ah,” James laughs dryly as he tilts his head downwards, realising Sam’s silence is a result of the dreadful cluster of mutilations, drops his hands. “Eye-catching, aren’t they?”

“You get them from a tussle gone wrong? Someone finally fought you back?” Sam has already envisioned someone brawling with James; however, the severity of the lesions suggest this was far more than a minor scrimmage. Sam’s suggestion is plenty to make the fervour in James’ eyes evaporate; a surliness slithers into its place. In those venom-ridden eyes, the taciturnity and stillness James seems to effortlessly dismiss surfaces. There is a profound grief beyond his apparent aloofness that seems boundless, unfathomable. Sam feels entrenched to the spot, incapable of looking away from the infinite anguish he perceives. James has ensnared him into a mousetrap. Arrested in his woe. Sam wills for the spirited nature of James to return.

“Don’t speak about shit you know nothing about,” James eventually murmurs coolly. And then, within a wink, with one swift lungful, James’ infamous grin languidly plays on his face. Any trace of sorrow vanishes. “It’s pretty killer, don’t you think? Kids love seeing the scars. Immediately makes me ten times cooler,”

“Makes you easy to spot,” Sam finally speaks, packing a copy of the sunken scars in his mind for later. Perhaps it would be of use to the cops, despite a chunk of his mind protesting against this notion, conjuring up the picture of James’ distressed expression.

“Unforgettable, right?” James winks. “God, let’s get a takeout.”

“I’ll call,” Sam states. “Don’t trust your ass. Could have a secret code or some shit,”

“A secret code?” James tosses his head back as he laughs.

“I wouldn’t put it past a killer,” Sam grunts, though it is half-hearted, as he slips out his phone and begins to dial the number. “Chinese takeout,”

“What if I wanted Indian?” James pouts, crossing his arms over his chest. “So impolite,”

“I’m the guest,” Sam retorts. “You’re paying,”

“Oh, is that how it is now, darlin’? Calling yourself a guest?”

“Yeah, that’s how it is,” Sam fights the urge to smirk, allows the realisation of _who_ and _what_ James is to sink in. He frowns, busying himself with listing his typical orders on the phone, doubling the portions. After a while, Sam glimpses at the clock. “Thank fuck this is almost over,”

“Huh?”

“Cops cover my night shifts. Can’t fucking wait to get out,” He replays the footage of the assassinations in his mind, over and over, quelling the reckless area of his brain. A neck, dribbling red, cleft from a carcass. “Fucking torture this is.”

“Such sweet torture though,”

“No.” Sam says, deadpan. A pellet gouging into flushed skin. “I fucking despise you, Barnes. What you do… It’s unforgivable. Don’t ever think we’ll be on good terms, got it? Because we won’t. Ever. Two types of people here. I work with the cops, we’re good. Good fucking people. You? You kill people for fun. And it isn’t even a spur-of-the-moment shit. It’s _organised_ shit, Barnes. Organised. You choose to do it. Almost like you enjoy it. You think I could ever ‘love’ being in your presence?” Sam shakes his head, shuddering with horror at the image his own words form. A slashing blade being tunnelled into a great vein, crimson erupting. “Never. Not in a million fucking years. Not if you paid me, which is what’s happening right now ‘cause I’m getting paid tons to do this. Could get paid millions to do this and, if I had an actual _choice_ , I’d still reject this job. You disgust me.”

Before James could reply with something droll, something playful, the doorbell rings and interrupts Sam’s odious speech. James does not say anything else anyhow; he is silent as he eats.

 

* * *

 

“How’s he been?” Sam questions the two cops as he enters the expansive lounge, absent of James. They report to him James’ activities, which did not seem to consist of anything riveting, before departing. Sam’s suitcase is not present; it remains at his home, far away from the greedy hands of James. Instead, he has two pistols slipped into his fitted belt that loops around tight slacks, above a flattened maroon button-up.

The house is peculiarly noiseless as James remains in his peaceful slumber. Sam flops down on the futon, slanting his head to the left, relishing the satisfying _crack_ his neck produces. Once again, he finds himself inspecting the area. There is truly not an ounce of James embedded into the place, aside from the bookshelves that may contain a variation of James’ tastes. However, Sam notes that this could be to keep up appearances, rather than James’ honest interest. Despite this, Sam saunters over to a rack, trailing a fingertip along the spines, eyebrows raised at the impressive selection he owns.

“You could’ve woken me up,”

Sam whips around on his heel, facing James, barely registering his spoken words because of his alarm. James chuckles lowly as Sam drinks in the sight of him in the morning. The dark ends of James’ mane interlace into a stunning chaos; raven black curls lap his long fingers, as he pushes back his lazily tangled strands behind an ear, and blue eyes are ever-so slightly hooded from sleep. His face is pink, flushed from intertwining with the bedsheets last night, and red mouth scarcely moving as he speaks. The drowsiness oozes from every pore as he yawns, back arching like a cat, and stumbles into the kitchen in boxers and another plain vest. It is a rare, delightful sight, and Sam grumbles to himself as he returns to the bookshelf.

“See anything you like?” James’ morning voice is sinfully low, gravelly, sensual. Sam rolls his eyes at it, just out of spite.

“No.” Sam lies through his teeth. “Doesn’t surprise me that I have nothing in common with a murderer,”

“Back at it again,” James yammers through a mouthful of cereal. Although James could not view Sam’s revolted expression at his poor manners, Sam is certain the disgust is potent enough that James knows he disapproves anyhow. “Nice to have you here when I wake up though. Damn dream to see you like this every morning,”

“Keep dreaming,” Sam mutters, deciding to twist away from the bookshelf that is too familiar for his liking. “It will never happen out of choice,”

“You made that very clear last night, sweetheart,” Sam fumes at how James slouches there, legs wide open, in just those boxers and vest, lusciously thick thighs fully exhibited. James shovels a spoonful of cereal in his mouth, and somehow the appeal does not lessen. “Let a man dream,”

“It revolts me that I have to be the centre of those ‘dreams’,” Sam searches for another item to browse, detects an uncomplicated painting, situates himself in front of it.

“I know I’m the centre of all yours too, Romeo,” James’ voice drops an octave near the end and Sam glares at the painting, irritated.

“I’m living one right now. But it’s a fucking nightmare.”

“Always so mean to me,” James whines before Sam listens to his shuffling, knowing he has finished his breakfast. Sam breathes in: one, two, three. He faces the felon as James prattles away once again. “Gonna take a shower. Wanna join me?”

“I’d rather drown.”

“Your loss,” James shrugs nonchalantly.

“Not a loss. I’m not here to be your best buddy,”

“Do you shower with your best pals, Wilson? Is that what you’re trying to-”

“Just shut up and get in the shower. I’ll stand outside the door.” Sam interjects, feeling a headache pound against his skull already.

“Don’t stand too close. It’s my private time you’re invading and you know…” James dawdles off, finalising his sentence with a wink. Sam’s mind blanks for a short moment.

“You know what? I’ve decided you can kill me. Fuckin’ do it.”

“Told you I don’t wanna kill you, Wilson,” James enters the pristine bathroom, closes the door before Sam could spit out another insult, this time about how he is a ‘callous convict.’ Sam rests against the entrance, amusing himself with his mobile device as the soothing rhythm of the gushing shower is heard until it is noiseless once again.

After a while, Sam’s suspicions upsurge as there is an absence of movement on the other side of the door. He knocks with his knuckles patiently. No response. Sam cusses underneath his breath and thumps again, several times.

“Barnes?” Sam wallops the oak, brassier, livider. “If you don’t reply, I’m gonna barge in.” No response. He tests the handle desperately, intolerantly, pleased to find no lock – saves him from picking it – and clangs the door open, entering the humid atmosphere. “For fuck’s sake-”

“Oh,” James remarks. Sam bristles as he gradually, steadily, turns to face the man. A clammy towel knots around his midriff, dews sopping into the hem. That is all Sam focuses on initially. Then, slowly, a beefy, burly build exposes itself with a scattering of russet freckles across creamy skin and rosy undertones glowing from the scalding shower. An ebony dusting of hair sprinkles itself across a smooth, wide chest and navel, enticing one to gander below. Droplets tongue at the outlines of muscles, rippling over his palpable power; the metal arm is dry amid this. And then, up, up, up: water pooling in dipped collarbones. Up, up, up: drenched coils plastering to protruding cheekbones and a sharp jawline, dewdrops saturating plump lips, compact enough to lick off. “I did ask if you wanted to join, darlin’.”

“You didn’t respond.” Sam says, expressionless, keeping his eyes trained on a scar he had not noticed before, directly below James’ eye.

“Couldn’t hear you. Sorry, wouldn’t miss talking to you for the world,” James drizzles his toothbrush in minty paste. “While you’re regretting not joining me in the shower, make yourself useful. Should I shave?” Sam watches as he commences the routine of brushing his teeth firmly, ridding of the plaque, ensuring they remain gleaming pearls. Sam has always known James has a dusting of prickling hair on the bottom half of his face; he knows James has never grown it out. Not yet.

“Don’t shave it,” Sam decides. Perhaps it will be easier for him to disassociate James from the assassin in those footages. _That in itself is a very bad idea_ , his mind adds; the choice has been made regardless.

“You like beards?” James queries once he returns his washing equipment to their original positions. Sam does not reply. “Love yours. You shape it well,”

“That tempts me to shave it off,” Sam vindictively rumbles.

“Help me pick out what shirt I should wear too,”

“I’m not your fucking ser-”

“You barged in on some private time, Wilson. You owe me.”

“I have every right to ‘barge in.’ You didn’t respond. You could have escaped. You murder people.”

“Hypothetically,” James sings as he stretches, cloth slipping down his narrow hips. Sam makes a disgruntled noise at the towel, trudging out of the bathroom hastily after its movement. “C’mon,” James bribes, now clad in a dusky robe. “Pick out my shirt, Wilson. I ain’t too proud to beg,”

“Wouldn’t that be a sight to see,” Sam re-joins. “I’d enjoy seeing your ego get hurt,” James snorts, discernibly tickled.

“You think my ego would get hurt from begging? Oh, Romeo. My ego is far too big for that. My love for begging is even bigger.” Sam splutters at this.

“I did _not_ want to know that shit. Jesus fucking Christ,”

“Aw, is it not what gets you going? Shame,”

“Please shut up,”

“Or… Maybe it is and-”

“I’ll pick out your fucking shirt if you shut up,” Sam hisses. James beams with glee, before slinking into his bedroom. Sam rubs his head forcefully, inhaling sharply, before trailing after the criminal.

“Now, it’s not a difficult decision,” James hooks two shirts in over his arms: one is a formfitting sapphire, the other a silk emerald. James presses them against his robe, exchanging positions incessantly, furrowing his brows. The sapphire brings out the steel in James’ eyes.

“Stop flapping them around everywhere!” Sam exclaims. “Blue,”

“You think the blue?” James squints at the nominated shirt, then back at Sam. “Why?”

“Do you really need an in-depth reason for a random fucking choice? Just put it on.”

“What’s with the hurry, Romeo? Are we going anywhere?” James wriggles his eyebrows. “Takin’ me out on a date, are we?”

“You sicken me,”

“So you like to say,” James begins to undo his robe. Sam flees out of the room, hearing James’ harmonious laughter in the distance.

Once James resurfaces, Sam is wordlessly satisfied with his choice. Paired with snug black jeans, the sapphire chemise hugs James’ frame scrumptiously, lavish fabric flattering his physique that Sam has seen too much of. The primary three buttons are undone to reveal three luminous necklaces, including the rectangular jewel. His fingers are ornamented with rings again, and his damp hair is half twisted up in an unkempt bun, half dropping in waves to his shoulders. The growing stubble gives him a rugged look, simply increasing his allure. However, what truly pleases Sam is how _blue_ his eyes look. _Damn, the oceans have nothing on those._ Sam shakes these thoughts out of his head, condemning that forsaken side of his brain once again. The victims have families. James is the very guy that slashes families apart without remorse.

“Sam, you’re gonna have to stop looking at me like that. Getting me all flustered,”

“I’m not looking at you like anything, dumbass,” Sam growls. “What are your plans for today now killing isn’t on the table? Sucks, doesn’t it?”

“Nah, that wasn’t on my schedule for today anyway,” James winks. “I’ll do that another time,”

“It’s seriously all a fucking joke to you,” Sam reiterates what he has previously said, disbelieving. “You really are a shitty person; I can’t fucking wait to get you locked up for good,”

“Have fun with that, Romeo. Although this conversation really excites me, I gotta see Nat at a restaurant for lunch and I really wouldn’t constantly make those digs. She won’t appreciate it,”

“Do I look like I give a damn about you or her?” Sam says, void of emotion. James sighs theatrically.

“The Chevy is Nat’s, by the way. I’ve got a motorcycle,”

“I know you do,” Sam recalls the shriek of the tyres before James’ buckshot spears into a pale forehead. Screeches and frenetic sobs from a spouse. And then shell buries into another. James’ trademark smirk falters fairly once he realises _how_ Sam knows that, yet he is swift enough that Sam does not see this waver.

“Well, feel free to get your own way there,”

“You know that’s not an option,” Sam rolls his eyes. “Stop treating me like a dumbass,”

“Just giving you the choice, sweetheart,” James tosses his keys up into the air before they nestle into his palm again as he treks to the front door, Sam begrudgingly close behind him. James reveals his treasured, lustrous CVO Pro Street Breakout (Harley-Davidson). The engine is immaculate, paintwork and chrome silken and glistening in the sunlight, wide handle bars pleading one to grasp and a cushioned behind, apt for two. James stretches over, spirals the key, props against the scrambler momentarily to worship the sweet purr of the apparatus, before straddling it with such grace.

The sight almost makes Sam’s treacherous mind wander. Almost.

“No leather suit? No helmet? Are you fucking crazy?” Sam blabbers, swinging his leg over the pillion regardless. Sam is highly aware of their close proximity, of how he is flush against James’ broad back, a few pleats of fabric separating their skin. His thighs squeeze against James’ figure too; he is far too close to this outlaw for his taste. Far too fucking close.

“Scared, are we?” James taunts, glimpsing back at Sam’s unenthusiastic expression, furious at this intimacy. “Ah, no. Too distracted by my body it is!”

“You never learn when to shut up, do you?” Sam yells above the engine.

“Hold onto me tight!”

“Just fucking drive,”

“As you wish!” With a thunderous roar, the prevailing machine skyrockets down the street, and despite the unceasing, raucous spewing of the engine, all Sam can hear is the melodic sound of James’ joy. He does _not_ clasp onto the criminal’s waist.

“You brought your fella,” Natasha nods towards Sam.

“Yup,” James slides into the sunshine-coloured booths, opposite Natasha, Sam following suit. “You should’ve seen how he was holding onto me just a minute ago. Too afraid to let me go,”

“I wouldn’t have if I had a choice,” Sam sneers. “But I also didn’t want to fall off when you don’t have any leathers or a helmet like a normal person.”

“What can I say? I live on the wild side of life,”

“Of course you do,” Sam snatches a menu, maddened with the victorious grin James has wedged on his face. A sociable, bouncing waitress approaches them; they order drinks. Even when this arrives, James is still grinning distastefully. “One of these days I’m gonna wipe that fucking grin off of your face. Just you wait,”

“Ouch,” Natasha laughs to some extent. “James could get you charged for a misdemeanour or felony offence with those threats,”

“Sorry,” Sam says openly, waits a beat after viewing their flabbergasted expressions. “Sorry I can’t hear you because you’re so far up a _criminal’s_ ass,” James whistles lowly.

“Bad move, Romeo,”

“Oh, wow? I’m far up his ass?” Natasha echoes. “How about you check yourself? You seem to be licking dirty floors for the coppers,”

“Not a choice, Romanoff. Shut up about things you don’t know about,”

“You first, _Wilson_.” Natasha counters, tone harsh. “You don’t know anything about me and James. You don’t even know a crumb.”

“I know enough about him to know his associates are just as sickening as he is,” Sam’s declaration is subjugated by James slurping his vanilla milkshake vociferously, glimpsing in-between the pair repetitively.

“Just as sickening as he is?” Natasha repeats once again. “Yet here you are, like a lost puppy following him around, trying to get him ‘locked up’ again.”

“As I’ve said, not a choice, while you _choose_ to associate with a fucking-!” He lowers his incensed voice. “Assassin,”

“And haven’t you associated with people like that in your past too?” Natasha speaks, deliberately sweetly. Sam’s face drops. _She’s lethal._ “Don’t look so surprised. If I can bail out Barnes, I can find out about you too.”

“You-”

“Okay!” James interjects stridently. “I mean, I know I’m a catch, but no need to fight over me,”

“Just want to say, it doesn’t surprise me anymore. Everything is as clear as day. You’re just as merciless as him,”

“You’re sitting there with two pistols in your belt purely because you’re in his presence without knowing a true thing about him. Mercy is a notion you know nothing about.” Natasha finishes. The waitress flurries up to their booth, rosy cheeks plump as she giggles endearingly, asking them if they’re ready to order. James lists all three of their orders, neither Natasha or Sam object.

“You know,” James reclines in his seat, gazing at the side of Sam’s scowling face. “Don’t say I didn’t warn ya not to make digs around Nat,”

“You warned him about me?” Natasha takes a swig from her beverage, already over the quarrel. “That’s cute,”

“Oh, please, Wilson, stop with the long face. It’s killin’ me,” James slings an arm around Sam, squeezing, not missing the way his shoulders slump, tension gradually easing out. “No one wins a fight against Nat, don’t take the defeat so hard. And don’t take it personally either,” James’ mouth is beside Sam’s ear before he knows it, hot and heavy breath. “She’s always like that, babe.”

“Alright, get the hell off of me,” Sam squirms out of his grip, disregarding how he feels notably better after James’ slight consolidation.

“So impolite,” Natasha remarks.

“Tell me about it,” James drawls. “Makes me order a Chinese takeout yesterday – when I wanted Indian – and then makes me pay for it,”

“At least he’s putting you in your place,” Natasha chortles as James slams a metal fist down on the table. Sam begins to chuckle but catches himself before it traitorously departs from his lips.

 

* * *

 

“We’ve got a lead on Zemo,” Steve informs in his ear as James complains about there being ‘nothing on television aside from – oh, a nature documentary.’

“You’ve got a lead on Zemo?”

“Yes, we have a lead on Zemo,” Steve confirms. “We know where he’s headed next and we’re going to catch him before he lets loose on another lot of civilians. Tomorrow afternoon. We’re tracking him. You can come up here for the information tonight,”

“Well,” Sam huffs. “Glad you’re gonna catch one of them,”

“I’m working on getting you out of that job, Sam, I really am,” Steve pledges, although, to Sam, he seems somewhat wooden. “But you were part of Romanoff’s compromise.”

“I wish I didn’t have to stick around. I adore you, Steve, don’t get me wrong… But the rest of them?” Sam shakes his head, despite the fact Steve could not witness the action. “Can’t fucking stand them. But I have no choice,” Sam ponders mutely if James is aware of his past, if Natasha informed him. He assumes not; James would have used it against him by now. Perhaps he should thank Natasha for that. _Ha, no way, Wilson. Stop getting involved._

“I know but I will try my best. I’ll see if I can do anything here to…” Sam tunes out as Steve yammers away in his ear, knowing all these guarantees he is making are hollow.

“Thanks, Steve.” Sam eventually re-joins, although he is uncertain what he is responding to. After a few more moments of small talk, Sam hangs up.

“Damn, you hang up before you could tell Stevie I said hi!” James exclaims.

“Stevie?” Sam snorts. “I’m sure he’d love to hear that nickname,” James doesn’t respond; Sam glances his way and the felon is engrossed within the nature documentary again. Sam finds it fascinating as James, a heinous individual who slays humans, seems to look dismayed as a predator chomps on the neck of another creature. It is ironic, really, Sam thinks, and also quite unsettling that James seems so _ordinary._

Before his thoughts deteriorate into loathing once again, Sam strolls into the kitchen and decides to begin their dinner. Sam dices the vegetables into perfect cubes with the chopping knife; every motion is exact from intense repetition he prides himself in. He detects a device that twizzles out pasta, and rummages through James’ cupboards and fridge for flour and eggs. Kneaded, shaped, Sam flattens the dough with James’ pin through the rollers, thinning out, before feeding it through the cutters, forming tagliatelle. It is not long before it is steaming, coated in tomato sauce and mixed with parmesan; the used equipment swims, lathered, in the sink.

“This is something I could get used to,” Sam glimpses over and James is leaning against the doorframe, toned arms crossed over chest. The shirt really does do wonders for his eyes.

“Don’t even think about getting used to it,” Sam dishes up the scorching meal and the pair wolf it down with speed. They sit in an easy silence for a few minutes. “You know Steve’s gonna get me out of this and I can’t wait,”

“You didn’t sound convinced on the phone,” James points out. “And yup, I was listening. You talk loudly.”

“Don’t want to pressure the old man,” Sam meanders into the kitchen once again, beginning to wash up all evidence of their dinner together. James seizes a towel to dry, just as Sam is sponging up the blade of a knife. He pauses as it captures the light, gleaming, taunting Sam, mocking how he is in the presence of a man who uses it wickedly.

“Before you say it,” James intrudes as Sam unfastens his mouth. “Let’s say I _do_ kill… I do not use fucking kitchen knives,” He chuckles loudly. “Because I know that’s why you’re staring at that like it’s gonna jump out and attack you,”

“No. I just don’t trust you.” Sam declares. “I’ve met shitty people like you in the past, as Romanoff said. But they own the fact they’re evil. You,” Sam’s lip curls downwards with distaste. “You are different from that,”

“I’m flattered,”

“You shouldn’t be. It’s not a good thing; it makes you even more dangerous,” Sam straightens. “I’ve got some shit to sort out with Steve. Cops are coming early tonight. Anytime now.” James pouts.

“Letting me down, are we? I was looking forward to a cosy night in,”

“Don’t make me gag,” Blows on oak resound throughout the apartment. “I’ll be here tomorrow,”

“I’ll be waiting for you, Romeo,” James watches as Sam departs from the kitchen, deserting him with the rest of the kitchen supplies to clean. Sam clambers into the blue and white vehicle, nodding to the authority figures that control it, as they zip down the road.

“How’s it going?” Sam queries to Steve, who is rubbing his freshly shaven, smooth chin, eyebrows crinkling together.

“Zemo’s planning to use explosives tomorrow night,” Steve explains. “I don’t think he’s realised we know about him,”

“Mm,” Sam hums, reading the files that Steve slides into his fingers. “Barnes has never used explosives,”

“More for Romanoff’s explanation. He’s pretending to be Barnes, not copying actions already made,” Steve supposes. “I’m not saying Barnes is innocent before you make the assumption.”

“Romanoff could have set up Zemo herself,” Sam proposes. “Would explain the voice recording too,”

“Possible,” Steve muses. “But a reach. We need solid evidence, Sam. You can try and get it. If you get close with Romanoff and Barnes…”

“Too late,” Sam recollects his frequent, vocalised loathing of James and his dispute with Natasha. “They both know I am not fond of either of them. Not even a little bit.”

“ _Sam_ ,” Steve groans.

“You try and spend most of your time in the presence of an assassin and then we’ll see who’s talking,”

“You’ve done this before,”

“You keep saying. I know but James is different,” Sam shudders. “There’s something off about him, man. I don’t know.”

“I think you’re too paranoid,” Steve narrows his eyes at him. “In the past, have any of them flirted so openly with you?”

“Not as much as he does,”

“Maybe that’s what bothers you so much about him. The Barnes charm doesn’t just wear off,”

“The Barnes charm?” Sam echoes. “Is that what you’re calling it now? You think this is funny?”

“No, of course not,” Steve reassures sincerely, before swiftly changing the subject. “We’re going undercover tomorrow night where Zemo plans to put the explosives. We’ll catch him red-handed,”

“Need any back-up?”

“We’ll be fine; I’ll call you if we need anything.”

“Why are you here?” Malcolm enters leisurely and Sam stifles a yawn. “Haven’t you got a murderer to be pally with?”

“He’s off at night,” Steve informs before Sam could respond with rage. “Haven’t I told you, DeMarco, to quit insulting our colleague?”

“Colleague,” Malcolm scoffs, withered face becoming even more crinkled as he presents his disdain. Sam thinks back to the triumphant grin he wore when he discovered the footage of James’ face; he wonders briefly about what Malcolm’s thoughts are on the situation.

“DeMarco,” Steve warns.

“Haven’t you got something to be working on?” Sam scowls at the senior. “Like Zemo tomorrow?”

“Oh, I don’t need to fret it, Sam. I’ve been here for years; I know how to do my job.”

“Alright, that’s enough. I’m sick of hearing this. DeMarco, go find something useful to do. Sam, go have a night in.” Malcolm scuttles away. Sam bids farewell and departs also.

 

* * *

 

“Here we go again,” Sam grumbles as he enters James’ residence, exchanging duties with the cops. There, positioned in the centre of the oval, unblemished table, an enormous platter of a traditional breakfast remains: eggs, ham, mountains of fried potatoes, bacon. A tureen of fruit and a basket of two white rolls are adjacent to this. Sam has to admit, the aromas steaming from it are delightful, luring him to taste.

“Morning, darlin’,” James greets as he ambles out of the kitchen, clad in his sleepwear. “Made you breakfast. Have you eaten?”

“Only toast,” Sam informs. Unbuttered, plain toast – nothing in comparison to the fresh deliciousness in front of him. “What’s this for? Has it got poison in it?”

“How many times do I have to tell you, Wilson? I don’t wanna kill you,” James rolls his eyes exaggeratedly. “Just wanted to put you in a good mood for once,”

“This isn’t gonna make me like you, James.” Sam cautiously seats himself in front of the nourishment, hesitantly scooping a forkful into his mouth: a burst of heaven on his tongue. “Oh, this is good,”

“My ma taught me how to cook. I can make a mean breakfast, lunch, dinner; you name it.” James brags, yet all Sam focuses on is how, when he mentions his mother, his eyes involuntarily glow with merriment.

“Your ma?” Sam quirks a brow after swallowing, tucking into the sustenance. Perhaps this would provide him with answers. Sam, ambitious, decides he will progressively build evidence. One day he will get James under lock and key for eternity. Nevertheless, after he thinks this, the recollection of James’ interminable mourning haunts his mind.

“Yeah, my ma. Taught me almost everything I know,” James regards Sam expectantly, holding his breath. Sam recognises what he expects: a malicious aside about if she ‘taught him how to kill too.’ He can virtually see James priming for the impact, already recoiling. It is a bare vulnerability.

 _Seems like he has no family. Nothing… It seems like he’s very much alone, and that’s what he says too._ Sam has found James’ Achilles’ heel.

“Well, send her kudos from me because this is a damn good breakfast,” Sam is not a sadist; he is not pitiless. Though he scorns, despises, reviles the assassin that is James Buchanan Barnes, he is not a man to make a mockery out of the dead. When he sees the open surprise on James’ face, it makes him glad that the comment never slid off of his tongue.

“I will,” Sam watches as the crinkles by James’ eyes deepen with his joy. “I’d be careful what you say, Wilson, though; she’s probably already stirring in her grave from the shit you’ve said to me,” Again, James braces himself. Sam notes that this is a delicate topic, perhaps too delicate, and James is attempting not to show that. Sam finishes his meal and James takes it out.

“I’m not picking out your shirt this time,” Sam grumbles as they head towards the spotless bathroom. James chuckles.

“That’s if you don’t barge in again,”

“Maybe you should respond then. What am I supposed to do? Let it slide? Who knows what your next move is,”

“I’m making my next move on _you_ ,” James blows a kiss before closing the bathroom door. Sam doesn’t have time to pull a disgusted expression; he reacts too slowly.

He finds himself listening to the gushing shower roasting the bathroom for another time. James croons in the shower, whilst Sam rolls his eyes so hard they could have plummeted from his sockets. The pouring halts. Once again, there is an extensive hush. It is eerily quiet. Sam is tempted to bellow his name and barge in again; however, he is persevering. He is not going to pick out James’ shirt.

After a while, Sam peeps at his watch: 17 minutes since the shower switched off. Sam groans intensely, assuming this is James’ scheme all along – to force him to select a shirt for him. Time rolls out in front of him and Sam, much to his aggravation, pounds on the door.

“Barnes! I’ll pick out your shirt for you, just stop being a bigger asshole than you are already,” The motionlessness remains. No response. Sam jerks on the door handle; it does not budge. “James!” Using his entire bulk and power, he bangs against the door, triggering the bathroom drawers in front of it to swing away, allowing him access.

It is vacant, albeit from that charming pair of _Yves Saint Laurent_ aviator-style sunglasses on the sill next to the open window. Attached to the frame is a note that Sam reads, blood throbbing faster, rage sweltering beneath his skin, causing him to crumple the thin paper: _I’m sorry, Romeo. Forgive me?_

“Motherfucker,” Sam snarls. He is unsure of his next move as the wind that billows in from outside taunts him about this disaster. “‘Just wanted to put you in a good mood for once’ my fucking ass! Goddammit!”

He shreds the note before examining the sunspecs, about to toss them outside the window, before he recalls the three-digit number he had previously seen on the label. He slides them on, heading outside. James’ Harley is nowhere in sight. Sam curses to the sky as he dials Steve’s number. It goes straight to voicemail.

“Steve, if you’re listening to me right now you gotta pick this up. Call me back. Immediately.”

“Looking for someone?” Natasha purrs. “He’s out, Wilson. Don’t panic; he’s not causing trouble. Let me buy you a drink to make up for what happened before.”

“I’m not a dumbass, Romanoff. I know what you’re doing; you’re trying to stall me. Where the fuck has he gone?”

“So negative. He’s not up to any harm,” Despite this, Sam is already calling the station.

“Thank you! Picking up! Right-”

“Look, Wilson,” And _typical_ , it is Malcolm that picks up. “We’ve got a bigger problem here. Can your matter hold?”

“No, it can’t fucking hold! James has-” There is a rustling on the opposite end of the line and Sam hears Isabella’s voice, demanding Malcolm to go elsewhere.

“Sam, I’m sorry but we really can’t take this right now,” Isabella explains. “Zemo has gone off of the grid,”

“Oh no,” It dawns on Sam, makes his boiling blood turn cold. “Oh no, no, no,”

“I’m glad you understand. Call us about it later, alright? I’m sure your matter is just as important,”

“Isabella, you need to listen to me, James is-” She hangs up. “Fucking _cops!_ Fuck you. Fuck you for not listening to me!”

“Having a tantrum, are we?” Natasha rests against her Chevy, gulping a beverage from a glass bottle. “He’ll be back soon, don’t you worry.”

“He’s gone to kill Zemo, hasn’t he? Why the fuck would he kill him? You bailed him out _using_ Zemo,”

“Maybe he’s gone to kill him, maybe he hasn’t,” Natasha shrugs. “That’s just hypothetical,” Sam seethes loudly this time, yelling to the sky.

“He’s a fucking assassin, Romanoff! Get your head straight!”

“I see you like the sunglasses he bought you.”

“Fuck. You’re stalling me, fuck. I gotta find James. I gotta find Zemo. I gotta get both of their asses to fucking-” The squealing of motorcycle tyres intersects Sam’s speech. James is clad in a devastatingly tight black sweater, wild tresses free from any bands, as he scrambles off of his bike. He has a neat incision directly where the scar beneath his eye remains; it dyes his pastel skin cherry. Aside from this, there is no other evidence of injury.

“Heard you were calling for me, Romeo,” James rasps, beaming despite the sunken slit in his face, opening up his plasma for everyone to view. Sam knows, he fucking _knows_ what James has done.

“Where is his body?” Sam forces out.

“Dunno what you’re talking about,”

“James,” Natasha dashes up to him, smearing the thick liquid into white. “Что случилось? Ты в порядке?” Sam slips out his phone, with haste, audio-records.

“Он порезал меня там, где знает, что это больно.”

“I have no fucking idea what you’re on about but I just recorded it and I’m gonna send it to a translator,” Sam barks. “Don’t get me wrong, Russian’s a glorious language. But right now, I’m not in a very good mood. At all. Barnes, I know you killed Zemo. Tell me where the body is.”

“You don’t ‘know anything’, sweetheart.” The pet name is spoken faintly; Sam is ignorant of James’ instable heaving.

“Oh yeah, so you escape, huh? Zemo’s off the grid as soon as you escape. And then, you come back with a bloody scar. And I’m supposed to believe that you, an assassin, did not kill Zemo?”

“Let’s say if I have hurt many people,” James quakes. “I have not hurt-”

“As many as him. I fucking get it. I fucking _doubt_ it. You disgust me.”

“I see you like the shades,” He winces, motorcycle assisting him as Natasha unbolts the front door. Sam tears off the tinted lenses, discards them at James’ feet.

“I won’t touch anything your hands have been on,” Sam spits. “You’re a fucking murderer,” James does not respond, marches indoors with an air of vehemence. Sam shadows, hand latent on his pistol; however, instead of being met with a rampant James, all he overhears is the racket of him emptying his stomach.

Sam has no idea what is going on.

“How are you comforting a guy who has just _murdered_ someone!?” Sam exclaims to Natasha, who clasps James’ mane back consolingly as he hovers over the toilet. She glowers at Sam.

“Sam, have you murdered anyone in your life?” Silence. “So shut the fuck up. Get out of here if you’re not going to contribute anything worthwhile.”

“If you think I’m ever going to trust James to be alone again, you’re wrong. So wrong. That man is _dangerous_ , Romanoff. Have you seen the footage? Have you seen him stab people in the head? Across the neck? That motorcycle he rides, it’s the same one he-” Sam’s wrath is disrupted by James slamming his metal hand on the toilet seat, a clang resounding throughout the area.

“If you’re not going to go far away from here,” Natasha says, sinisterly, eyes menacing and Sam, for a split moment, is fearful. “Then go to the lounge and shut up.” Before Sam can retort, his phone blares out.

“Steve! Jesus Christ! Finally!”

“Zemo is entirely off the grid,” Steve notifies.

“Listen to me. James escaped this morning and when I phoned, I heard Zemo was off the grid. James has killed him, I know it, Steve; I _know_ it.”

“If Barnes killed Zemo, we’d have found his body.”

“You can’t even find him when he’s off the grid, let alone find his body.”

“Sam, I’m sorry, but this doesn’t make sense. Zemo is Barnes’ alibi; why would he kill him? Why would he kill the man who allowed him to escape? It doesn’t make sense. Without Zemo, there is no twin, no ‘someone pretending to be him.’ Any assassination that happens and is captured by the camera, with a metal arm involved, it’s going to be confirmed it is him. He will be locked up for life. So, why would he kill Zemo?”

“Steve, you’ve got to believe me!” Sam boils. “He killed him!”

“Take Barnes out for-”

“He came back with a cut on his cheek, Steve! Romanoff was stalling me. It was him.”

“Fine. I’ll keep it in mind. But we haven’t found any traces of Zemo’s body, any hints that he may be dead. Nothing. We have found nothing on Zemo.”

“Do you really think an assassin would leave a body lying around?” _Stop being dumb, Rogers, goddammit!_

“We have no evidence, Sam.”

“You cops and your fucking evidence. If y’all had listened to me when I first called, you could have found James and we would have an answer! Which would be the answer I’ve said!”

“Look, I’ve got to go. I’ll talk to you-”

“Steve Rogers.” Sam interjects. “If you don’t at least consider this, I will be pissed. I will be _pissed._ ” An exhale on the other line.

“I’ll propose it to the others.”

“Thank you,” Sam breathes a sigh of relief. “Fight it for me.”

“I’ll do my best,” A long pause. “Sam, we need to catch up for a coffee soon. I have a lot to say.”

“Whatever, Steve,” Sam feels overpowered, hollow. Another murder in the city; another son a mother is going to have to bury or else have cremated. “Text me the dates,” He hangs up, roams to the front window, scowls at the rejected sunglasses on the ground.

He has failed at the one job he has known his whole life.

“I’m sorry,” James rematerializes from the lavatory, looking drained and battered, wound still exposed and stinging. Sam’s antagonism upsurges.

“Sorry for killing him, are you serious? Sorry!? You're a fucking mo-”

“Sorry for leaving,” James corrects. Natasha threads her fingers through his mop, before kissing his forehead. She glares at Sam before she departs. “There are things you just won’t understand, darlin’.”

“Don’t call me that,”

“Suppose you ain’t gonna cook for me tonight, are you?”

“Why did you do it?” Sam, exhausted, sits down next to him. "Why the fuck do you kill people, James? What the hell do you get out of it? God, I won't understand people like you. You're fucking... You're-"

“Sam,” James gazes into his eyes and there it is again. The immeasurable sorrow that makes one side of Sam’s brain unravel. “I hope one day you’ll realise,” Sam rolls his eyes, still manic, still enraged, still puzzled, still fucking _livid;_ but he rolls his eyes regardless, resulting in a weak chuckle from James.

Sam glances back at the assassin, just as the slash spews out another bout of blood. He stumbles up from his position, heads into the bathroom, delves through the cupboards until he finds what he is raiding it for. Returning back next to the convict, he nestles into James’ side, presenting the box of butterfly stitches. James does not speak; the look of astonishment in his face is enough to show his gratitude. Sam, wordlessly, still fuming, applies the butterfly stitches to the freshly torn scar. He tosses the box onto the table after he has finished, carefully examining his work. James smiles softly at him.

“Why did you do that?”

“Ain’t gonna let you bleed out; you're still my job,” Sam grumbles. “You’ll get blood everywhere. I’m not a big fan of blood. Don't think I'm a big fan of you either, Barnes. Today just made me realise how much I don't wanna be here, how much I fucking hate this. Can't bear it,”

“Think you’re in the wrong job, sweetheart.”

“It wasn’t a choice,” Sam asserts. But at the same time, in his past, it partially was.

“Can’t you get out?” James queries. “Don’t you want to?”

“No one’s gonna take a guy with a past like me,” And for a moment after that, the pair sit in a companionable, understanding silence. Of course, it does not last long, not when Sam recalls what has just occurred. His loathing is inevitable.

 

* * *

 

 **TRANSLATIONS (ONCE AGAIN, APOLOGIES FOR ANY INACCURACIES)**  
**1) Natasha: Что случилось?Ты в порядке? = What happened? Are you okay?**  
**2) Bucky: Он порезал меня там, где знает, что это больно. = He cut me where he knows it hurts.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really not sure if I like this chapter :( i think it's just the end that frustrates me like... obviously u guys want sambucky but like bucky is an assassin and to sam he's nothing but a cold-hearted assassin. he can't just like him cos he's witty and attractive haha. that's the thing for a lot of these fics you know? i don't want to make it seem like i'm romanticising it. so it's difficult to make them have that familiar banter when sam freakin HATES ASSASSINS obviously....... but also here we see that bucky does have some vulnerabilities. and sam knows, knows by the look in his eyes and the way he reacts about his mother and the scars that there's a lot more to bucky than he anticipates. maybe that's why he's so split in two. i don't know. IT'S DIFFICULT Y'ALL. just encourage me not to abandon this because i'm getting /.\ unsure. love u all and thanks for the kudos and comments so far. xoxoxo


	3. Two-Faced

Sam gapes, unblinking, at the illuminated phone screen displaying a text from a paid interpreter: it translates to ‘he cut me where he knows it hurts.’

The sentence resounds throughout the depths of his mind as he gawps unwaveringly at the words. Eventually Sam transfers a sufficient quantity of dollars to the translator, glides his phone into his pocket just as James promenades into the lounge, rubbing eyes indolently. Sam watches as the sturdy man’s fingers catch onto the stitched gash, causing him to grimace momentarily.

“Mornin’,” He grouses, instantly brewing himself a coffee. “Want one?” Sam nods in response, tentative about mentioning the translation. “Any sugar? Not that you need it; you’re sweet enough,” The flirt is a feeble effort compared to James’ usual smoothness.

“It’s too early for that shit,” Sam unlocks his phone as he identifies the time. James has stirred early. The text glares back at him.

“Never too early for you, darlin’,” A heat does _not_ bloom in Sam’s chest at James’ hoarse morning voice calling him that. It does not. He hands Sam a streaming mug before popping himself down next to Sam, cautiously sipping the scalding caffeine. He switches on the television, and Sam spots the heavy black creases underneath his eyes – eyes that are prominently rosy and inflamed.

“No breakfast today?” Sam initiates the conversation, which never occurs, as he attempts to avoid what he truly wishes to address, as he attempts to avoid the reality of James’ evident distress. How does one comfort an assassin? _No, he doesn’t need comfort; he killed Zemo. Though this is peculiar_ , Sam notes, _Barnes always appeared satisfied on camera about his assassinations…_

“Don’t feel like eating,” James dismisses. “Don’t worry,”

“Oh, I’m not.” Sam assures. _He cut me where he knows it hurts._ “Barnes,”

“Just spit it out,” James rubs his forehead blearily. “You’re obviously trying to say something. Babe, you’ve ripped me to shreds verbally multiple times. I think I can take your shit,”

“An interpreter translated what you said in Russian,” Sam anticipates a reaction, but James just swallows his coffee offhandedly. Fatigued. “Why is that the place he knows hurts?” Sam watches as James lifts his flesh hand, thumbing the stitches.

“I know what you’re trying to do,” James gazes into Sam’s eyes. “Sweetheart, you’re the last person I’d be showing my soul to right now. Trust me, I wish I could, but you won’t even believe me if I told ya that what I did hypothetically was self-defence,”

“You deliberately went to find Zemo,” Sam frowns. “Don’t play the victim, James; it really doesn’t suit you.” James laughs, hollow.

“Hey, Romeo?” Sam holds eye contact with James as he begins to retreat to his chamber.

“What?”

“I would appreciate if you stopped trying to figure out shit you know nothing about, darlin’. Don’t get me wrong, I love spending time with a catch like you but…” An unhurried, gradual smirk plays on his candy lips. “Don’t be like this, Sam; the blatant ignorance really doesn’t suit you,”

He disappears into his room whilst Sam ogles at where he was positioned, comprehending that was the first time James has ever truly challenged him about his prying. He guzzles down the rest of his piping beverage before switching the channel to the news. Zemo’s photograph is plastered far and wide, the reporters urgently pleading people to come forwards if they see a sign of him – any indication at all.

“Good luck with finding that, dumbasses,” After a few moments, Sam thinks distantly that he should be with James, in his bedchamber, making sure he does not crawl out the window again. He sighs before switching off the television, strolling into the company of James. James swiftly, _suddenly_ slams the cover on a hefty timber box, thrusting it below his bed, all within a flash.

“You could’ve knocked, Wilson.”

“Like you know privacy either,” Sam protests, before probing, inquisitive. “Got something to hide there? Weapons maybe?”

“They’re not weapons,” James grouches, rolling his eyes and, _wow, he’s grumpy_. “They’re photographs,” Pause. “Of my family,” James has an aptitude for making Sam feel remorse for what he has said, particularly as he detects the detached, melancholic expression on James’ face, though eyes soft and tender. He has no family left.

“Let’s go out today,” Sam speedily changes the subject. “I’ll pick your shirt,”

“Sam,” James says, as he begins to leave. “I’m well aware you despise me. Don’t try to be nice when you don’t mean it. I like the vigour you have when you’re pissed anyway,” Sam is taken back by this, as he had expected the typical cocky rejoinder from James that he has rapidly gotten used to.

“I was just-” Sam gets interrupted by his ringtone. “Need anything, Steve?”

“I’ve freed a couple of hours. Coffee?”

“You know I have Barnes to watch over,”

“Bring him along,” Sam exits the bedroom briefly, lowering his tone. “He’s in a bad mood today. Don’t think it would be wise. Kinda like a pissed chi-”

“Sam,” Steve interjects. “Just bring him along,”

“-ihuahua. Maybe that’s how he gets when he’s just _murdered_ someone… Surely he’d be used to by now?”

“Sam,” Steve repeats sternly, before hanging up. Sam gasps.

“Asshole,” He grumbles. “Barnes, I’m not giving you a choice here. Get your lazy ass ready now. We’re getting some coffee,” A grunt in response. “Barnes.”

“I don’t want to,” James wails, lugging his body out of the bedroom, pushing out his bottom lip. He widens his eyes too and God, all Sam can do is stare into those big blue eyes, stare at those plush lips, flushed cheeks. “Please?”

“Uh,” Sam gulps as James blinks slow, _slow._ He shakes his head, snapping himself out of it. “No, shut up. Let’s go. Steve’s waiting.”

“Steve’s gonna be there?” His intonation rises at the end, immediately perking up. _Huh,_ Sam thinks. _What’s so great about Rogers? Aside from the whole practically Adonis thing._

“Yes,” Sam replies, eyeing him curiously.

“Let me go and take a quick shower. It will be good seeing him,”

“What’s with this sudden admiration for Steve?” Sam mutters as James is halfway through the threshold of the bathroom. “Trying to soften him up for something?”

“Oh? Jealous, are we, Romeo?”

“You wish,” Sam shakes his head, making sure the bathroom door is left open this time as James washes – it is their agreement. “Jealousy is a useless emotion I have not felt in years, and would definitely not feel with you,”

Steve is already there when they eventually arrive, eyebrows scrunching together, staring at his watch. Sam and James wriggle into the seats opposite the fair-haired man.

“Stop frowning; we’re here,” Sam publicises. Steve beams cheerfully, delighted that the pair of them are present.

“Steve,” James greets. “Long time no see, pal.”

“You saw him literally a week ago,” Sam deadpans, eye twitching somewhat at the earnest expression on James’ face. _He’s definitely planning something._

“Have you been settling in okay?” Steve queries and, at first, Sam assumes he is talking to him; however, he realises his gaze is entirely on James. Sam opens and closes his mouth, disbelief almost tangible.

“Why are you-?” Sam raises his eyebrows, exhaling noisily, before cutting himself off by flopping his head in one hand.

“Been doing as well as I can be. You good?” As Sam peeks through the gaps between his digits, he detects that James is smiling, and it is the type of heartfelt smile Sam has never produced from him. Probably never will. Sam abhors it – the fact he is aware James is organising something; he is uncertain _what_ , but he knows it is something.

“I’m well, Barnes,” At this, James chuckles somewhat.

“I thought this was a coffee between you and me, Steve.” Sam interjects their bonding moment. “And I think you’ve forgotten the guy you’re acting chummy with is an assassin? Dumbass,”

“Alright, alright,” Steve raises his hands up. “Let me go and get you both a bite to eat. Muffins or something,” And with that, Steve leaves the pair to natter.

“I know you’re planning some shit,” Sam squints his eyes at the felon. “And I don’t like it one bit,”

“Planning?” James quirks a fine brow. “Why would I be planning? And you don’t like anything about me, darlin’, so that doesn’t surprise me at all,”

“That’s because you’re a…” Sam silences, before slanting tremendously close to James, staring into those wide, spellbinding eyes. This will suit. This, being close and scowling right at him as he jabs a finger into a broad chest, sullen, will suit. “If you ever even _think_ to lay a finger on Steve, if you even plan to manipulate someone as pure as him… I will not hesitate to make your life misery,” James drops his gaze fleetingly before meeting his eyes again, draping his arm around the back of Sam’s chair, compelling them to be even closer.

“Sweetheart,” He twangs, calculatingly drawing out the syllables, practically _purring._ Sam knows James delights in the way it makes him wilfully recoil, pleasures in the way it makes an accidental craving flash transiently in his pupils. “My life is already misery. You can’t make it worse. Regardless, I wouldn’t worry about me harming Steve. He can protect himself and…” He reclines in his seat. “I wouldn’t do that to you,”

“I wish I could believe you,”

“Me too, Wilson, me too,”

“Two chocolate chip muffins,” Steve graciously relaxes into the bench opposite again after gifting them the enjoyments, glancing in between them, fluctuating in his position as he notices the tension.

“So,” James chomps on his muffin. “How d’ya become a copper, Stevie? I’d picture you more of an artist. You have the hands for it,”

“Ah well,” Steve motions mindlessly with his hands. “I had an artist dream but it died out long ago. Life happens… Being a cop allowed me to help people. So, I wanted to do it. Or maybe I just have a hero complex now,”

“I think all cops have a hero complex,” Sam snorts.

“You still draw?” Sam rolls his eyes at James’ vulgar demeanours again, blabbing with his mouth already occupied.

“Of course,” Steve nods. “Less, but I still do it. It’s a passion, so I don’t think I’ll ever stop. It’s a shame really. What about you?”

“Hm?”

“You took art classes. You said so,”

“Oh,” James simpers to himself, and Sam assumes the man is reminiscing that time in his mind. Sam contemplates what James would have been like before he morphed into this. “Only went to them ‘cause my friend went. He was the talented one,” Steve belly-laughs at this and Sam scoffs to himself.

“I’m sure you were better than you thought, Barnes,”

“Please,” James asserts. “Call me Bucky,”

“Alright, Bucky,”

_My friends call me Bucky._

“No, no, no,” Sam exclaims. “Oh, hell no! Steve, what are you playing at, man? This guy is a criminal! What kind of cop are you? Jesus, the system is more corrupt than I thought. No wonder I get forced to do this job when you act like this with killers!”

“Sam, I think you’re-”

“No, Steve.” Sam glowers. “This is fucked up. This guy has killed more people than you can count on your fingers. Isn’t that enough for you to realise you can’t be like this with him? A cop to help people. Are you helping the victims’ families right now?” Sam watches as the amusement lines in Steve’s face fade, forming into a morose expression.

“Here we go again,” James croons. “You’re spoiling all the fun, Romeo,” Sam has established that James is strikingly merrier than he originally was before this coffee trip; however, this does not faze his decision.

“No, I can’t deal with this,” Sam waves to a table a few metres away. “Go and sit over there, still in sight. I think if I watch anymore of you two being buddies I might actually be sick,”

“Good to know you’re a fella who is protective,” James winks, notably back to his regular self, as he slinks to the requested table with his almost finished muffin. Sam respires noisily, calmed, as he regards an unimpressed Steve.

“What? You should have heard how you were acting,” At this, Steve does not answer. “Look, I’m sorry I ruined your brewing friendship with an assassin, but you gotta understand where I’m coming from,”

“I do,” Steve laments. “You’re right,”

“I know,” Sam smirks at Steve. “Anyway, how have you been?”

“I’m well, thank you. Still haven’t found anything on Zemo,” Steve notifies. “I put forward the idea you wanted me to. It was relatively well received, actually… But the lack of evidence makes it hard to prove to people who don’t know… Who don’t believe what he has done,”

“Just keep working on it on my behalf, please?”

“I am, I promise.” Steve pledges. “Aside from that, nothing much has really been happening. My life is uninteresting. What about you?”

“Just been dealing with him,” Sam expresses tartly, before a beat of silence. “Not seeing anyone at the moment then?”

“No,” Steve snickers. “Doesn’t suit my lifestyle right now. Maybe in the future, who knows? But I’m uninterested at the moment.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty preoccupied. Not many people like a guy with the shit I’ve done, or a guy who has to hang out with serial killers and people like that for a living,”

“I’m still working on getting you out of this job, but it’s not looking likely,”

“I knew that long ago, buddy. But thank you for trying,”

“I’ll keep on at it. You deserve to be happy in what you’re doing… You don’t deserve this just because of what you had to do. You didn’t really have a choice. I’m sorry I couldn’t help you more,”

“Ah, Steve, what is this, you sap?” Sam reaches over and thumps him mildly on the shoulder. “I appreciate you. Now, what is this ‘a lot to say’ you were talking about earlier? When you said we gotta meet for a coffee because you have a lot to say?”

“Oh,” Steve gawps into the pits of his brew for a moment. James is heard sniggering and the pair peek over to see him on his mobile. Sam makes a mental memo to enquire later on if he has to check James’ electronic devices or not. Steve returns to his cuppa. “I’ll tell you another time,”

“You piss me off, Rogers,”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“ _Hey_!”

 

* * *

 

“Is he okay?” Natasha saunters into the area a few days later, examining the inches of aberrant furniture of James’ abode.

“I don’t remember being told you were coming around today,” Sam grimaces, bushed with witnessing people acting hospitable towards this assassin this week.

“I don’t remember being told that I have to inform you,” Natasha retorts, watching as Sam spikes his dinner with his fork.

“He’s in the kitchen making his own lunch for once,” Sam remarks. “This reminds me, now you’re here alone with me. I translated what he said the other day,”

“If you think I’m going to tell you anything about James, anything that he wouldn’t want me to tell you, then you’re mistaken,”

“Hmm,” Sam ponders the drives of convicts. “What if money was involved?” Natasha’s eyebrows effectively vanish beneath curls of auburn.

“James,” Natasha calls. “Get in here before I beat the shit out of this guy,” James pokes his head around the door frame, grinning languidly.

“Not gonna lie, Nat; that’s something I’d love to see.” He vanishes momentarily before strolling in with a towering plate. “You couldn’t take her, sweetheart. You probably wouldn’t even get a hit in.”

“I very much doubt that,” Sam crosses his bulging arms over his broad chest. “Besides, I was just using something many criminals are motivated by to get information,”

“I’ve told you before, Romeo,” James shovels sizzling nourishment into his mouth. “You’re not gonna find anything out about me,”

“We’ll see,”

“I can’t believe you even suggested…” Natasha breaks off with an audible scoff. “Must know from experience,”

“I’m sorry?”

“Money must have motivated you then, hmm?”

“You have only read what was face value, Romanoff. You know nothing about me.”

“Once again, hypocritical. You say this about yourself, yet all you see with James is what’s on the surface.”

“Don’t blame him,” James pipes up. “I am pretty dazzling on the surface,” Sam rolls his eyes, hard.

“Anyway,” Natasha twirls from Sam, regarding James as he situates his plate to the side. “I’m not here to waste my time arguing with someone as useless as that. I’m here to talk to you.”

“What’s up, Nat?”

“James, I- actually…” Natasha dawdles off, gifting Sam a sour smile. Her pointed fingernails tap away at her phone screen. James’ phone pings promptly, the noise resounding throughout the area.

“Oh, this is taking the piss,” Sam grumbles.

“What?” Natasha bats her eyelashes innocently. “I’m just using what little luxuries James has left, which includes-”

“Me not looking through your phones, I’m perfectly aware,” Sam snaps, recalling when he asked the cops the other day, who grimly responded that it is ‘unnecessary’ to monitor his phone use. Sam is still particularly irate at the fact it was _Steve’s_ decision to allow him this indulgence. “I still need to speak to Steve about that. I was right, Barnes; you’re definitely softening him up for something,”

“It’s just my charm, sweetheart,” He types back to Natasha. “A charm that I’m gonna get to work on you sooner or later,”

“Fat chance that will happen,” Sam dismisses, just as James winks at him, a pleasant feeling erupting in Sam’s stomach.

“Tell me, Romeo,” James flops down beside Sam, arm brushing against his as he tilts his head to the side, holding fierce eye contact. He slithers closer, situating an arm around the other’s broad shoulders, exchanging body heat. Sam’s breath hitches in his throat somewhat, before he clears it gently.

“What?” He grits out, irritated. Plainly and simply irritated.

“Do you…” James glimpses down momentarily, before gazing up at him through those unreasonably long lashes, intensely. “Find me at least a little bit attractive?”

“No,” Sam’s eyes have a fleeting moment of indulgence on those plush lips. “Not at all.”

“Mm,” James’ hum is low, throaty; goosebumps erupt over Sam’s skin as James shifts, index finger now grazing down his arm, focusing on the goosebumps. “That’s a shame,”

Right here, in this very moment, Sam has tunnel vision. Bright, glistening caerulean blinds his sense of moral reasoning, exposed admiration glinting in them, charisma exuding from every pore. Sam is absorbed on a solitary thread of hair sweeping over distinct cheekbones and tingling uncut stubble. Moles are scattered across cream, like stars decorating the milky way, laughter lines engraved beside eyes, deepening with every instant. The pallet God used to create this man would have made ancient Greek sculptors weep, Sam is sure. He is God’s art in all his glory; when the sun kisses the horizon, awakening dawn, Sam is certain this man would outshine the very sunset, projecting his light and beauty on all of the world. _You are beautiful. You are beautiful. You are beautiful._ The words almost tumble gracefully from his mouth like a spell, a wish –

“This feels oddly voyeuristic,” Natasha remarks from the side. Sam jumps back, squishes himself to the edge of the sofa, blinking out of the hypnotised state he had found himself in, allured by James’ low voice and sensual movements.

“Nat,” James whines. “You ruined the moment,”

“There was no moment to ruin,” Sam tugs at his shirt collar, feeling rather unsettled with himself. “I don’t share ‘moments’ with killers,”

“Of course you don’t,” James’ eyes twinkle with joy. Sam loathes it.

“Hypocritical yet _again_ ,” Natasha chimes in a sing-song voice, resulting in a deathly glare from Sam. “What? Just saying the truth. You’ve killed someone before, haven’t you, Wilson?”

“You know how different our situations are,” Sam growls, standing up from the sofa, wishing to depart. Leave from James’ allure. From Natasha’s all-knowing eye. However, this is his career now; he cannot desert James. “Leave now,”

“Are you in the position to tell me to leave?” Natasha quirks a sharp brow.

“Yes. Now leave.”

“Oh, you’re lucky I don’t feel like another fight today, Sam,” Natasha waves her phone at James. “I’ll be in touch,” And with that, she departs.

“Did she honestly just come over just to gloat about how you’re able to use your phone privately?”

“That’s Natalia for you,” James triumphs, proudly.

“I hate my job,” Sam discards his plate in the kitchen before returning to the settee, quite reluctantly positioning himself adjacent to James again.

“What would you choose to do?” James questions, a genuine intrigue clear in his features.

“Hmm?”

“What would you choose to do? If you didn’t have to do this job?”

“Oh,” Sam ogles at a particularly blank wall, smiling gently to himself. “I’d help people,” James does not reply, signalling for Sam to continue. “Help people who have experienced trauma, who think they don’t deserve any good, to have a fulfilling future. To find that happiness again. That’s what I’d like to do. I imagine it would be rewarding. I was quite close to doing that before I got dragged into deep shit, you know? I was close. But I needed money, accepted an offer I couldn’t refuse, somehow stayed in the mess. Regret it, always. I wouldn’t here, doing this, if I had just declined.”

“I believe you will get there,” At this, Sam returns his regard, holding eye contact once again. James is smiling at him fondly, _tenderly_ ; it is akin to the one he gave Steve earlier this week. Sam finds the corner of his mouth quirking up, only slightly, barely noticeably. “You’ll get out of this and get your shot at happiness. I always find people get what they deserve eventually. It will not surprise me if I somehow hear about you in a few years doing exactly what you want to do. Helping people.”

“This sweet talk,” Sam laughs, attempting to brush off James’ earnestness. The convict shakes his head.

“It’s not sweet talk. You’ll get outta this mess eventually, Wilson.” James breaks the eye contact, cracking his neck idly. “Besides, as much as you don’t want to believe it, what you’re doing now helps people already. Not in the way you want to, but you’re helping people.” James thumbs the remote control; Sam is still gazing unwaveringly at him, at the side of his handsomely crafted face. More tousled threads of his wild hair escape the updo, tickling James’ immaculate bone structure. Those sapphire gems shine, shine wetly, with a hint of respect. Sam fixates on lush lips a tad parted, a shaky exhale, on how James sinks his head mournfully, surly towards his own metal that taunts him. “Giving people a sense of humanity again. When they haven’t felt human for so long.”

Sam desires to spit out something like ‘you’re not human because you’re fucking criminals and murderers and you definitely should be in a cell right now’; however, there is this unadorned helplessness with James at this current moment. Sam notices how James recoils at his own arm, repulsed. Inhuman.

“You know something?” James clenches his fist. “I can take this off. I can take this arm off. I have the power to do that.” He shakes his head, gritting his teeth. “But I can’t. It’s still got a fucking hold of me.” Sam is silent, torn in his own situation. He is wholly clueless to whatever has occurred to James, but all he knows is that James has slaughtered _dozens._ Without penitence too, with a warped leer on his face. And yet here he is, quivering at something that has mangled his shoulder; here he has been, quaking at the mention of his family, dwelling upon photographs. Natasha’s words resound throughout Sam’s mind, reminding him of how all Sam has acknowledged is what is on the surface with James.

“Barnes,” Sam begins, tentatively shuffling closer. He is about to utter sentences of comfort, when he halts. Sparks of James gashing the collar of a gentleman sizzle in Sam’s mind, of the plasma drivelling down the neck, of James smiling maliciously and stabbing him again. And again. And again. Hearing the declining drum of his pulse thumping against James’ palm, tormenting, rosy fluid oozing through the dips of his digits, thick and hot.

_“See this? They are nothing to him.” Malcolm snarls. “Nothing but flesh and bones. Nothing but another person buried.”_

“Sorry man,” Sam stands up, mind muddled. “I just can’t…”

“I know,” James’ face is obscured now, darkened by tresses of chestnut. Sam feels remorse pool in his gut, just as he recollects James lifting a firearm, face concealed by a murky guise, viewing as a bullet pierces pulsing temples. Children weepy. Howling of loved ones. James not even sparing a glance as he tosses an explosive, disappearing in the smoulder. A ghost.

Sam is still entrenched to the spot, to in front of James, as his hands shudder when typing an incoherent text to Natasha. Sam watches, with his own two eyes, as James deletes the message without sending, shaking his head, body shaking, body shaking, body – Sam dashes to the toilet. He flees. He glares at his frantic expression in the mirror.

“Jesus Christ. This is messy as shit.” Sam scowls at his reflection. “What are you doing, man? You’re just letting a guy sit there and panic outside. You wanna help people? This is what you’re doing.” He shakes his head vigorously. “No, he’s a goddamn serial killer and any guilt he feels has been coming for a long damn time.” Pause. “But if I leave him to suffer, does that make me bad? Shit, why has Romanoff always been beside him? It’s genuine love. Not the in-it-for-money love I’ve seen between criminals like this.” Sam inhales deeply. “Alright.” Exiting, Sam enters the lounge once again, prepared to soothe the convict.

James, with an oval glass of rum in his hand, is lounging on the sofa, engrossed in a nature documentary on the television. All traces of fret gone. _Was I really that long in the bathroom?_ Sam thinks, as he hesitantly plonks down next to James. He stares at the side of James’ face. _Or is he just this good at hiding this shit? At pretending he’s okay?_

“I know I’ve got a handsome face and all,” James takes a swig of his rum. “But please, stop staring at me. It’s gettin’ me all hot and bothered, Wilson.”

Though Sam almost comments about how rapidly he is back to his usual self, he does not. Instead, he replies: “Don’t flatter yourself so much, Barnes. I’m just thinking about how it’s late afternoon and you’re drinking already.”

“This rum?” James sloshes the drink near Sam. “It’s a fucking masterpiece, Romeo. Try it,” He hands it over to Sam who scrunches his nose up somewhat.

“I wouldn’t have classed you as a rum guy,” Sam narrows his eyes at James.

“It’s only this rum I like. All other rum? Who would willingly drink that without the sole purpose of getting drunk?” James chuckles. _Right,_ Sam thinks. _That’s what you’re doing._ “I’ll tell you a secret, Wilson,” He lowers his tone scandalously, deliberately. He is giving Sam those sultry eyes through those long eyelashes again – it is the gaze that makes Sam’s heart leap to his mouth, almost bounding out and to James. “I’m a cocktail fella.” Sam smiles, and he is astounded to find it is a genuine smile. He quickly drops the expression forcefully.

“That’s what I thought,” Sam takes a gulp of the rum, without commenting on its rather pungent taste, and decides how to avoid James’ plan with this potent beverage. “This is good. I’m having the rest of it.” James grumbles to himself before leaning close.

“You’re taking advantage of the soft spot I have for you, Romeo.” He pauses, hums, reclines, focusing back on the nature documentary.

An enormous lion with a lustrous mane, busking in the sunlight, is shown. Sam observes as James grins, utterly enamoured by the creature, eyes glittering in awe. It is a stunning sight. He excuses himself briefly to the toilet again, tossing the rum down the sink, before returning to his position. James seems to forget entirely about the liquor as they yatter about the documentary, ordering takeout – Sam decides which takeout again.

“This is what I meant,” James crunches on a poppadum. “You help people in this job. I know it was unintentional, you’ve helped.”

“Hardly. All I-”

“Shut up,” James interjects. “Accept it. I know you didn’t wanna help a guy like me, I know. But it’s in your nature to help. You have a good nature. You’re a genuinely… _Good_ person, Sam. It’s rare to find people like you in this world. It’s fucking rare. We’re stark contrasts.”

“Stark contrasts,” Sam repeats, before pondering, again, on what James would have been like before this. Before the killing. He attempts to shove that aside, just for the time being. Just to avoid a repeat of the earlier occurrence. “Tell me what you were like as a kid, Barnes. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not interested. Just making conversation. I bet you were a pain in the ass,”

“Nah, Wilson. I was an absolute charmer,” He scoops up some of his curry with the side dish. “Teachers and parents loved me. Girls loved me. Guys loved me.”

“Sounds like you would have had a lot of friends,” Sam snorts.

“Actually,” James rubs his chin. “Just one.”

“Just one? Really? Only one who could deal with someone as infuriating as you then. Romanoff?”

“Romanoff?” James blinks. “No. It wasn’t Romanoff. But I have known her for a long time. Not when I was a kid though.”

“Huh,” Sam mutters. “Someone else?”

“Yeah,” He beams to himself, recalling this particular individual. “Now _he_ was what you call a pain in the ass.” _And what happened? Where is he now? ‘Cause he’s not here, is he? Does he know you’re like this now? How did you get like this?_ Sam aches to ask.

“You asked me what I would do. What would you do?”

“What? Oh. I was… Really into astronomy, you know? Stars. Space. It was so… Surreal, out of this world – literally. I was subscribed to a dozen science magazines. So that’s what I would do. Something with space. Astro-physics. Something like that.”

He gives Sam a quirk of the lips; however, it seems fairly dejected. Sam knows that twinge of sorrow, feels it himself. The lost potential. What could have been. But with James, it is graver; it is profounder, facing him everyday when he looks into the mirror, bottomless. Even as James begins to blab about how stars are ‘black bodies’ and how they ‘absorb all radiation that falls on it’, it is present in his expression. Nevertheless, Sam is besotted by how James speaks, by how the words reel off of his tongue proficiently, at how truthfully intellectual this man is. Glowing. Gifted. Passionate. Sam notes that James has a childlike sense of joy to him. He appears remarkably young again, anew. He clasps the naan with his metal hand; it lures Sam’s attention to it. To reality.

_How did you get like this, James Buchanan Barnes? How did you get like this?_

 

* * *

 

“Is there any way we can look into Barnes’ childhood?” Sam leans against the cabinet in the station, a few days later, as the black ink of the night sky expands, capturing wisps of light. “Might be able to find a trigger. A turning point.”

“Already investigated,” Steve dismisses.

“I’ll look. There might be something that I spot that you don’t,” Sam suggests. Steve sighs.

“We can’t give you confidential files like this, Sam,”

“Ah, right,” Sam rolls his shoulders. “What utter benefits of being the exception, am I right?”

“I’m sorry,” Steve appears truly wistful. “He has no family. Maybe that has something to do with it.”

“That’s still not an excuse to go on a decade long killing spree though,”

“I know,” Steve rubs the creases forming in his forehead. “It just doesn’t make sense, Sam.”

“What? People can just go killing for no reason, Steve; that isn’t new,”

“I don’t know. It just seems off to me.” Steve frowns.

“He’s-”

“A nutcase,” Malcolm saunters in and Sam resists the urge to flip him off immediately. “It’s all an act, Rogers. It’s what people like him do. He’s already been successful with the fact he has gotten out of here. All my brilliant hard work with catching him! A waste! They are charismatic. Don’t play dumb now, Rogers. You’re a smart, good cop.” Sam remembers how Malcom had shown not even an ounce of sympathy towards him. It does not astonish him that Malcolm’s perspective is this.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this but Malcolm is right, Steve. This guy… He’s killed so many people. He taunted the camera. It could just be all a sympathy act, man. It wouldn’t be surprising. We can’t take his side; we’re here for the victims’ families. He isn’t a good guy, no matter how much you want him to be.” As he utters this, Sam recalls James’ previous fretful nature that begs to differ; however, he shakes these thoughts away. Steve smiles sorrowfully.

“Talking some sense for the first time in your life, Wilson.” Malcolm mocks before departing, exiting the station without a farewell, making his stance on this situation clear.

“He had one best friend,” Sam reveals. “We could perhaps try to find who this is, question him. He could have some clues,”

“Isn’t it Romanoff?” Steve raises a brow questioningly.

“Nah,” Sam shakes his head once. “This is his childhood friend. He mentions him a lot.”

“He does?”

“Yeah,” Sam shrugs nonchalantly. “Do the files have anything on that guy? I could try and find who he is.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Steve appears thoughtful fleetingly. “I don’t know if that would help, Sam.”

“It’s better than nothing, right? Do we ever wanna find out his motivations?”

“For closure,” Steve agrees. “We need to know for the families.”

“Exactly. This might be the only thing we have,”

“It’s a stretch,”

“You say everything is a reach or a stretch,” Sam complains. “Speaking of which, have you found anything on Zemo?”

“You know we haven’t,”

“Of course I know. You know he killed him.”

“I think,” Steve exhales heavily. “I think I just don’t want to believe there are bad guys in this world like that. He’s hilarious, approachable, charming, sane. Why did he choose to kill? Are there really people like that in the world?”

“You’re a cop, Steve,” Sam presses a hand on his shoulder. “Your job wouldn’t be needed if there wasn’t,” Steve frowns. “You need to stop being so soft on him though. He’s a spineless criminal. Why did you give him the freedom of not having his mobile raided?”

“I…” Steve trails off. “I don’t know. We should change that. Check it once a week.”

“Even once a week is weak, but I can deal with that,” Sam compromises. “Just… Stop being like this. The guy’s a criminal. He’s killed people. Hurt people. Smiled at hurting people. All this charm? It’s an act he puts up. He should be locked up, goddammit. Romanoff is too good.”

“They are without Zemo now though,” Steve muses. “That’s why I don’t think Barnes-”

“The guy’s softening you up,” Sam publicises. “He saw your heart of gold and is taking advantage of it. That’s why he’s been so buddy-buddy towards you. He’s softening you up and it’s working. You’re a fucking cop, Steve. You’ve dealt with people like this before. How come Barnes is able to break through?”

“The Barnes charm,” Steve laughs. Sam does not.

“He has _no_ charm. Criminals don’t have charm!” Sam is disturbed by his blaring ringtone; Steve, meanwhile, looks rather remorseful and shameful. “What?”

“You need to come here now,” The cop reports. “It’s Barnes.”

“What’s he done now?” Sam immediately fingers his pistol tucked in a belt. “Has he escaped?”

“No,” The cop breathes heavily and Sam can practically picture him pressed up against the front door, refusing to open it again. “He’s… Out of control,”

“Out of control?” Sam whips away from a questioning Steve, after apologising profusely, clambering into his vehicle frantically. “What do you mean?”

“You’ll see. One of our men was just tidying in his lounge a bit with his permission and he suddenly just flipped out. Grabbed Jenkins by the throat and told him that he’s got him this time or some creepy shit. Then he let him go and Jenkins managed to flee.”

“What the fuck?” Sam slams his foot on the gas. “I’m coming over now,”

“Thank Jesus,”

Upon arriving, Sam perceives multiple officers nurturing Jenkins’ neck with deep indigo bruises tainting either side. It is evident James’ grip had been unforgiving, constricting, fatal. _This is him,_ Sam thinks grimly, _this is the criminal everyone is so soft for._ He notices how numerous coppers are surrounding the area; every possible exit is concealed by a splash of sapphire.

“Is anyone inside with him?” Sam approaches the entrance, already alert, with adrenaline pounding through his veins, poisoning blood.

“N-no,” Harmer utters, face insipid.

“Fuck’s sake,” Sam discards any objections before crossing the threshold, guardedly skulking into the lounge. There is a minute tide of shattered substances littering the floor, forming a cloak over an area of polished floorboards. What instantly captures Sam’s eye is that the disarray circles strewn cable ties, somehow torn into multiple centimetres. It is eerily still until Sam hears a dismayed racket to the far left of the cable ties. There, Sam spots him. James. Coiled into a tight ball, staring unswervingly at the cable ties, rocking, rocking, eyes wild, rocking; a tempest inside him

“Barnes?” Sam drops his weapon; he is not unwise. He is aware of what is occurring. James’ glistening, frantic eyes focus on him and his mouth disengages, dripping out words that are crowded together and fragmented, hopping from one thought to another.

“Could have,” James gravels, sullen at the cable ties again. “Can rip them apart with my bare fucking hands and I couldn’t do it back then, could I? No, no. I’m sorry; I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Sam’s sentences rebound like solid hail, not sopping into his clothes. He is incapable of comprehending.

“James?” Sam paces nearer to the cable ties, watchfully. “Stay with me. Everything is gonna be okay.”

“It’s my fault,” James never bawls; he has learnt not to sob. Sam has known that ever since he witnessed that first slaying – ever since he heard of the soldier that ascended, beginning his slaughtering at wintertime. But here now, Sam sees it: the tears aggressively brimming. He did not weep before, so here they are now: every day, every month, every year of not weeping, building up.

“I’m gonna get rid of this shit, okay?” Sam signals to the wrecked cable ties, distributed over the floor. The words do nothing; James continues rocking brutally. Ferociously, faster. Sam sensibly picks up the cable ties. Faster, faster and then he is a cyclone of motion – leaping up and stalking towards Sam, who is gripping the cable ties. Sam is gaping into those eyes, mourning eyes, full of repentance and rage. Hot rage that sizzles to the surface, causing fists to clench, but that dreadful haunting sorrow… Sam is frozen, engrained to the spot once again, absorbed in that boundless misery. James’ metal arm reaches, reaches for Sam’s throat. Sam remains still.

“James,” Sam eventually speaks, discovering his voice, casting his gaze away from those eyes before his heart squeezes too tight. James does not halt; he does not recognise Sam. The name James is one used by too many for him to decipher who is speaking, whether it is friend or foe. “Listen to me, _Bucky_ ,” The metal arm collaborates deafeningly, hovering above a sturdy throat, threatening to crush relentlessly. “You’re alright; you’re at home. You’re safe. I’m Sam, you know? Bucky?” Sam repeats this over and over; every time he says that nickname, reminding James that he is safe, the shaking eases, the hand lowers an inch. Eventually, it drops. “I'm Sam, Bucky. You're safe. At home. I'm Sam.”

“Romeo?” James eventually utters, voice lilting with hope as he blinks sluggishly.

“Yeah, it’s me. It’s Sam. You’ve got this, man. Just breathe, alright? Come on,”

“You called me Bucky,”

“Yeah,” Sam stealthily thrusts the broken ties in his back jean pocket. “And that’s the one and only time I will,” At this, James’ eyes dry, though tears never truly fell. He has learnt not to weep. Breathless, James pants noisily, wiping his damp forehead.

“I…I hurt someone, didn’t I? That copper.”

“I believe it wasn’t intentional,” Sam astounds himself at his own words; however, it seems the criminal is more astonished. “I know a trigger when I see one,”

“Oh,” James plonks down on the settee, gazing at the clutter still remaining on the floor, though absent of cable ties. “You’re gonna lock me up, aren’t ya? You’ve always been eager to. Now’s your chance, Romeo. Assaulted a copper, didn’t I? Did it when I was conscious, no excuse.”

“You weren’t in the right frame of mind,” Sam assures. “I can… Work something out,”

“No.” James shakes his head, laughing flatly. “There’s no excuse.”

“I’m sure Steve will back us up. You softened him up, remember?”

“Oh Steve,” Before he can continue, James’ phone blares out. He stretches over to the device, clearing his throat. “Natalia,” He closes his eyes, apologetic. “I didn’t have the chance. It was bad, Natalia. I’m sorry. This is…” He smiles tenderly at Natasha’s words. “I don’t deserve this, you know?” After a few more minutes, James hangs up.

“Romanoff’s backing you up too, isn’t she?” Sam pauses. “Everyone knows I loathe your guts, Barnes. It’s not rocket science, you know? If I stand up for you, you’re not gonna get arrested, because they all know I want you locked up. I know what a panic attack looks like when I see it. I know you weren’t in your right mind when you lashed out at Jenkins. No one knew you would react to… That like that,”

“I know,” James threads his hands through his hair. A few minutes pass and then the clamour of urgent footsteps echoes throughout the area, until cherry hair and ivory skin comes into view.

“James,” Natasha dashes over to him, envelopes him into a tight embrace. James appears taken back, before naturally settling into her arms. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”

“You didn’t know,”

“I should have told them that you can’t be around cable ties,” Natasha frowns, clearly aggrieved at her perceived mishap. Sam looms around gawkily, until Natasha detects him in the room. “You better not make this fucking hard for him, Wilson. You don’t understand-”

“Natalia,” James interjects, tone soft. “He helped me,” Natasha is soundless, quirking a brow at Sam, examining him as if she is attempting to find a fault in James’ announcement.

“I find that very difficult to believe that someone who has his head so far up his own ass like he does…” She dawdles off as she detects the edge of a cable tie in Sam’s back pocket. “Huh. That’s surprising, Wilson.”

“He is full of surprises, isn’t he?” James comments, a tiny smirk playing on his features. Sam finds a sense of relief wash over him at the sight. It is not quite the smirk that is ever-so familiar – it could have been more of a grimace – but it is enough. It is enough.

“Don’t expect shit like this often, Barnes.”

“Back to Barnes, are we, Romeo?”

 _He cut me where he knows it hurts._ _Haven’t felt human for so long. I’m sorry; I’m sorry. I’m sorry._ It is enough.

“Shut up. Let’s just sort out how we get out of this mess,”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soooooo sorry i haven't updated D: i have been so busy! i work full-time at the moment alongside a part-time job i have in the evening so i honestly have had no spare time. i literally drummed out this chapter so fast so it may not be as good as my previous two but you know... i didn't want u lot to think i have abandoned this >:( it's just been so hectic!!! anyway, this one was shorter than usual, just filling out the characters and sambucky's relationship for future revelations... wink wonk just you guys wait for the next chapter...
> 
> ALSOOOO... you may be thinking ‘whoa beth this is moving too quickly’ because of the multiple stressful moments in this chapter with bucky but, trust me, it isn’t. there are multiple reasons for this. one, bucky’s episodes are, OF COURSE, gonna happen. as you’ve all guessed already, he isn’t some cold-hearted assassin; there is some backstory there. he’s bound to have frequent trauma. second of all, sam isn’t gonna suddenly like bucky because of this panic attack, by the way. but i thought if i included something like this it would make more sense if sam got closer to bucky, knowing that there is more to him than just being a straight up assassin. It’s definitely not gonna happen straight away, but I felt like I needed something like this to make it make sense if they have better banter in the future, you get me? However, don’t worry all you enemies-to-lovers fans! Sam is not gonna like Bucky 'properly' any time soon… At least not openly 😉 also, once you know what happened behind closed doors, especially with mister zemo, then this emotional week for bucky would make sense.
> 
> Hope that makes sense! I’m just worried that people think I’ve rushed into deep shit too fast. But don’t worry, I got it all planned! I think… hahaha anyway this chapter was a bit of A DEEEEPPP CHAPTER considering the bio of this fic seems all happy happy. ahhh once again i hope nothing came as a disappointment >:( anyway, next chapter! end of next chapter - exciting stuff! pls stay tuned <3 sorry for the wait and inevitable disappoint this may bring y'all


	4. Reflect What You Are, In Case You Don't Know

“Steve, answer your phone!” Sam hollers down the line, rubbing his forehead jadedly as Natasha skyrockets down the street, away from the racket of the officers, away from their accusing gazes, lusting for James to be behind hoary bars. They had sweet-talked their way out. “Romanoff, my house is just along here,” Natasha pulls up outside Sam’s comfortably sized dwelling, just as Sam’s mobile rings.

“Sorry for not answering. I’ve been told what happened by Malcolm, but part of me believes that’s not what happened.” Steve confesses.

“Let me guess, Malcolm made him seem like the worst person alive? Listen, Steve, we’re at my house. I’ll let you know what went down, but you need to come here. Yeah, I’m not a fan of Barnes but I’m also not a fan of people being locked up when they don’t know the whole story. He had a panic attack.”

“I’m on my way,” Sam nods, despite Steve not seeing this, and shunts his phone back into his front pocket before clambering out of the dashing vehicle, keys dangling off fine fingers.

“This is a little less luxurious than I thought it would be,” Natasha remarks as Sam jolts open the entrance. Sam casts a level, bitter gaze.

“You know so much about me, Romanoff. Surely, you’d know that they don’t pay me the same as they pay the actual coppers, right?”

“Don’t know what Nat’s saying. It’s a nice place,” James muses out loud, already inside as he had slithered sneakily past the agitated pair. He is inspecting every metre of rooms and walls; the area is like any other with couches, counters and cradles. However, the vertical surfaces are painted with smiles and sunshine, ornamented with a dozen images of the people who once grasped Sam’s heart. It is all warm russet and sleek black tops, with a record player and a cluster of vinyl records stacked, CDs cluttering upon timber. Though small, the unassuming settee is spongy and full of character, facing a box television with posters smeared against the walls behind it. Slanting against the deftly made cabinet that holds the television, an unsteady tower of films and shows greets the trio.

“Wow,” Natasha seems astounded by how the home is overflowing with music, brimming with memories, teeming with movies: it is _Sam_. Sam’s soul had been poured into the paint slathered across the walls, nailed into the fixed cabinets, polished across the lustrous black counters, squashed in-between stacks of pop culture. The visitors are almost certain they can see those bold brown eyes in the figures of the posters, glinting back at them.

“Alright, stop examining my home like it’s some kinda science project,” Sam stomps into the kitchen, yanking open his fridge and tugging out a few cans of a bubbling beverage. He tosses them to the duo, who effortlessly catch the cool object in their hands, before taking a large gulp himself.

“So, you have nothing in common with me?” James grins, all too knowingly, as he browses the marvellous films and music on show. “Such a liar, Romeo, such a liar.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. We both like popular films and music, shocking,” Sam grumbles, treading over to where James narrows his eyes at the vinyl records.

“Oh, you got some jazz here?” James glimpses up at Sam from his position, quirking a fine brow. Sam swallows, unsettled by the sight of James on his _knees_ in front of him, batting those butterfly lashes at him, comfortable in _Sam’s_ home.

“I have a broad music taste. Now stop looking at my shit,” Sam grits out, tugging James up by his rather large bicep. His eyes track where his hand rests.

“I’ll stop looking when you stop checking me out,” James winks. Sam releases his arm, growling underneath his breath, before stalking over to the couch. Natasha, meanwhile, is smiling at Sam, causing the man to shuffle uneasily, sinking further into the welcoming sofa.

“You’re not a bad fella, Wilson.” Natasha props herself on the arm of the settee, one leg over the other, taking a delicate sip of her can. “Not bad at all,” Sam winces.

“You don’t know me.”

“I know more about you than a lot of people,”

“You still don’t know me.”

“Why is so difficult for you to take that compliment?” Natasha cocks her head. “Do you disagree? Would you prefer if I called you a terrible person?” Sam, out of the corner of his eye, sees James’ crestfallen expression at this very thought alone. _You have a good nature. You’re a genuinely… Good person, Sam. It’s rare to find people like you in this world. It’s fucking rare. We’re stark contrasts._

“Shut up,” Sam sighs, flicking the opener of his drink. “Interrogating is part of my job, not yours.” He deliberately avoids the weighty stare James is giving him, as the felon slumps down into the seat beside him. He does not appreciate the twist in his gut at the sight of James’ saddened reaction. He does not appreciate it at all. Fuck, since when did he care about this asshole’s opinion of him?

“I don’t have a job really, Wilson,” James drapes an arm around the back of the couch, tilting close to the other individual. Sam concentrates on the rectangular gem that dangles away from pale skin. James’ gaze falls to the jewellery too, and his rapacious smirk melts away. Sam narrows his eyes at it, as it glints in the dim-lit room of his home, noting how spellbinding the jewel is. He reaches out a hand and cautiously allows the trinket to settle in his palm, contrasting his dark skin.

“You never take this off,” Sam murmurs, trailing his thumb along the gleam. He looks up, notices how James is gaping at him with an open sort of wonder. “It’s beautiful,” Sam is not looking at the necklace. James’ parted lips close into a warm smile.

“It is,” He agrees, eyes dancing with a joy that Sam has not ever seen in them before. It is… Sincere, not playful. Earnest. Natasha sighs theatrically beside them, rolling her eyes hard, just as thumping resounds from the door. It startles Sam, causing him to scramble off the settee and zap away to the door. Though, he does not wrench his grip from the necklace when he does this; Sam is careful as he releases the jewel upon escaping James’ appeal.

“How is he?” Steve questions immediately as the door releases. His eyebrows furrow deeply with visible concern, causing Sam to squint suspiciously at the man.

“Seriously, why do you care so much about him?” Sam does not allow the cop to step inside.

“Sam,” Steve’s gaze hardens astoundingly fast. “He had a panic attack. Get off his back for one moment, will you?” Sam kicks open the door.

“It’s not his back I’m on, Rogers.”

“Don’t be like this,” Steve sighs in the hallway. “Please? Look, I’ll… Let’s just sort this out.” Sam watches the officer closely as he enters the lounge, greeting the pair. Sam feels the _useless_ , forbidden sentiment sizzle silently in his veins. He discards it, returning to the lounge and taking his position on the sofa again, next to where James is lounging with his legs spread, settling stunningly into Sam’s home.

“So, if you don’t mind me asking,” Steve props against the wall, arms crossed. “What happened?”

“It’s my fault,” Natasha frowns at herself.

“Shut up, Nat.” James disagrees. “It’s not your fault at all.”

“Cable ties trigger Barnes’ anxiety attacks,” Sam enlightens. “Jenkins was cleaning in his house using cable ties, so Barnes was sent into a panic. He choked Jenkins during his panic attack. He was not in the right frame of mind at all,”

“Are you… Defending Barnes?” Sam knows Steve is attempting to resist the urge to smile. He glares evenly at the man.

“I’ve said before, Steve. I’m not a fan of Barnes and won’t ever be,” Natasha snorts at this as Sam pauses. He decides to overlook it. “But I’m not gonna let him get locked up for something he shouldn’t be locked up for.”

“Not a fan of me?” James echoes, before lounging out on the sofa, head nestling in Sam’s lap, gawking up at the other man. Those lengthy, wild coils of hair spread out across Sam’s thighs, as sapphire glitters up at him, while a spirited grin plays on pretty candy lips.

“I thought I’ve made it clear, Barnes, that I absolutely despise you. And your… Associate,” Despite this, Sam cannot find it in him to hiss at James to move from his position. Sam knows very well that the convict would move if asked to; however, he does not utter a word about this. He merely allows James to be sprawled across his lap, content. Peaceful. Sam thinks that a minute fragment of him is comforted by the sight of tranquillity in James’ features. It is rare.

“They’re like this all the time,” Natasha grouses to Steve. “It’s gross,”

“Don’t fucking start, Romanoff.” Sam snaps. “I am not ‘like this’ with him. How many times do I have to tell you? Barnes is an _assassin-”_ His outburst is interrupted by James snoring gently beneath him. Sam blinks, astonished, as he gapes down at the lethal assassin, no peaks present on his forehead. “Ah, what the fuck!”

“Shut up,” Natasha snarls. “Don’t you dare disturb him, Wilson, or I will…”

“You will what?” Sam raises his eyebrows. “Is that a threat, Romanoff?”

“Nope,” Natasha steadily smiles. “There’s no need to threaten you about this, Wilson. I know you wouldn’t like to wake _your_ sleeping beauty,” She watches as one of Sam’s eyes twitches aggressively at her nickname for James.

“You little-”

“Excuse me,” Steve interjects, caught in-between appearing amused and vexed. “We have bigger things to worry about here,”

“I know,” Natasha laments, moving onto the sofa from the arm, placing James’ feet on her lap as she does so. “Look, I forgot to let you know about the cable ties. It’s my fault; this could have been avoided.”

“It’s not your fault,” Steve shakes his head. “I think we might be able to make the sentence into a fine instead of serving time, especially considering the fact this was a psychological disturbance, rather than a deliberate attack.”

“That’s relieving,” Natasha perceptibly relaxes. “I’ll be able to win them over,”

“I have no doubt about that,” Steve laughs to a certain degree. “Plus, I’ll be there supporting.”

“Witness,” Sam pipes up. “I witnessed Barnes panicking. I know he wasn’t in his right state of mind. Besides, my words will hold weight. Everyone knows I hate Barnes’ ass… Me, defending him? Everyone would know it’s the truth,” His words still seem wholehearted, despite having the one he scorns across his lap. Sam peeks down at the loathed man, noticing how he has curled up somewhat against him. He recalls the misty dark circles he has seen multiple times beneath those endearing eyes. Recalls how jaded the man seems. Sam sighs.

“As far as I know, Jenkins wasn’t even going to press charges; he was just going to request higher security,” Steve proclaims. “However, certain… Cops are encouraging him to.”

“Let me guess,” Sam scowls. “It’s fucking Malcolm, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Steve sorrowfully admits. “DeMarco is a punisher,”

“DeMarco is a fucking asshole, that’s what he is.”

“Rogers,” Natasha addresses. “Will you please do me the honour of taking me to where you work? I’d like to speak to this officer. Jenkins, that is, not Malcolm. You can accompany. I’d like to work a little… Bribery. Explaining the situation. Taking this to court would only get messy.”

“Hmm…” Steve ponders this momentarily. “Alright. I’ll be present but no threats, Romanoff.”

“Threats?” Natasha repeats. “Me? Threatening people? When has that _ever_ happened?” Moving James’ feet, she leaps up from the couch. “Let’s leave these two lover boys to it.” Sam’s fists clench as he glowers at the redhead.

“Sam.” Steve says sternly. It merely increases the rage. “Is he going to be okay?”

“Of course he is. What do you think I’m gonna do? Suffocate him?” Sam rolls his eyes. “It’s my job to look over him. Just go.”

“Come on, you hunk. Let’s go.” Natasha leads the fair-haired individual out of the house. Sam is thankful to see them fade; he lets out a gush of air he did not realise he had been holding, before switching on the television, turning the volume down. Sam gazes down at James before his mind shrieks out, alarm bells, in colossal crimson letters: **ASSASSIN**.

“God, what the fuck am I doing?” Sam scrubs his temples vehemently, before gradually shifting James’ head, now away from the settee. At the loss of heat, James fidgets in his sleep, frowning intensely, causing Sam to recall Natasha’s ferociousness about stirring him, the shadowy marks that tainted under his eyes. He knows, very well, that this man does not rest easy. “Ah, fuck’s sake.” Skidding into his chamber, Sam reels up the dense, deluxe duvet and seizes one of his plentiful soft pillows. Returning, he lightly elevates James’ head, situating it on the padding, before tucking him under the quilt. He settles in more serenely, and Sam observes as the disgruntled creases ease out. He is calm again; Sam now fixates on the television.

“You,” James groans, half-asleep. Sam jumps, disconcerted, from where he parks himself on the floor, peeping back at James as he stretches blindly, haphazardly patting Sam’s shoulder. “Good person, Sam. Good person. I’m safe.” He spools over, fronting the cushions of the couch, before snoring again. Sam remains staring at him, mind blank, cheeks warm.

 

* * *

 

“I’ve never seen you with any of these people,” James takes a large mouthful of the scorching nourishment Sam previously prepared for him the following day, motioning to the framed images.

“That’s because you only see me when I work,” Sam deadpans. James frowns around his fork. “And… I’m not really in contact with any of them anymore,”

“Oh,” James swallows noisily. Sam notices the criminal does not probe, does not demand further detail; he is allowing Sam to decide whether he wishes to elaborate. Sam gazes at the cheekiness of the photographs, at the laughter he shared with his family and close comrades. He heaves a sigh.

“Romanoff never told you what I did before this, did she?”

“She asked if I wanted to know but said she wouldn’t tell me anyway.” James publicises. “Nat takes secrets to the grave; she’s good like that. But I told her I didn’t want to know from a mouth that wasn’t yours.”

“Huh.” Sam smiles to some extent. “That’s suspiciously considerate,”

“I’m a charmer, Romeo, don’t you forget it,” James takes out his plate to the kitchen, popping it into the dishwasher, before returning next to Sam on the sofa. “It’s just I wouldn’t wanna hear something that I know you wouldn’t want me to know. I’d prefer to hear it from you, when you want to say. If you ever do.”

“Well, let’s just say I did a shitty job. My family cut off contact when it got out of hand. My friends did the same.” Sam shrugs. “Nothing I can do about it,”

“Have you tried contacting them again? Now that you’re not doing that?”

“No,” Sam scoffs. “If you knew what I did, man… You’d understand.”

“Sam,” James quirks a brow as the man holds eye contact. “Think about who you’re speaking to.”

“It’s just,” Sam gnaws on his bottom lip. “I wanted to help people; you know that. I was burdened by this… Profound grief, you know? I wanted to help people but what I was doing back then… It was the opposite. I was causing people pain, and I knew I was doing that; I was doing it deliberately. Who was I doing it for? No one aside from myself. See, I needed money. Took up a job to get money. And I lost everything else I had. I lost my family. I lost my best friend.”

“I know there’s more to the story than that,” James states. “I’m sure your family would be more than happy to hear from you again. They’re probably itching to contact you, to see how you’re doing.”

“Then why aren’t they doing it?”

“A grudge, Wilson. Come on. They’re the ones who cut off contact, do you think they’d come crawling back? Do they even know you don’t do what you used to do anymore?” James reaches out, clasping Sam’s wrist softly, drawing his attention to those earnest eyes. “Contact them first. They’re waiting for you to be that guy. Be the bigger person.”

“Aw, shit.” Sam shakes his head forcefully, turning away. “What am I doing pouring my heart out to you of all people?” James releases his wrist, reclining into the sofa. “You’re a goddamn criminal, Jesus Christ. What am I doing?” Though, despite this internal dilemma, Sam can only think about how certain James was about there being ‘more to the story.’ How simple it is for the convict to widen his mind, to acknowledge that Sam is not what he claims to be. How difficult it is for Sam to do the same.

“An assassin, a murderer, a monster, a criminal,” James lists off, yawning loudly. “Could be killing you right now if you think I’m all of those things. But instead, I’m telling you to call your damn family if you want to, Wilson.”

“Just forget it,” Sam rolls his shoulders.

“Listen-”

“No, you listen!” Sam exclaims, abruptly aggravated. “ _Forget it._ ”

“Alright,” James holds his hands up defensively. “Whatever you wish for, Romeo.” Sam opens his mouth to apologise; however, he forces it shut again. An assassin does not need an apology. His phone screeches out again and he eagerly clutches it, answering possibly too swiftly – it is an urgent escape.

“Steve, how did it go yesterday?”

“Really good,” Steve replies. “Romanoff works magic, Sam. Jenkins isn’t going to take it to court or press charges, but he would like to meet with Barnes today and chat about it. He wants to know for sure that it was not a deliberate attack.”

“Sounds good,” Sam leaps up, slipping on his camel jacket. “We’ll be on our way,”

“No need,” Steve dismisses. “Romanoff will pick you both up. In fact, she’s on her way right now. Is everything okay?”

“Everything is fine,” Sam assures, already standing at the door impatiently. James remains on the couch, lulling around. “Sorry about earlier, man.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Steve laughs charmingly. “It’s my fault. You’ve said before I need to remember that Barnes… He’s a suspected assassin. There’s nothing I can do to change that. You seem more distant lately. I hope you’re alright. I’m always here if you want to talk, you know that, right?”

“Thanks, Steve,” Sam smiles genuinely. “We need to go catch another coffee soon,”

“I’ll see if I can clear my schedule in the next few weeks. You know, there’s…” Steve trails off. “Just things we need to go over.”

“Everything’s okay?”

“Of course,” Steve pauses. “Better be going. I’ll meet you here.”

“See ya then, Rogers.” Neither Sam nor James move from where they are located until Natasha appears. They mount into the elegant transport noiselessly, resulting in a puzzled expression from Natasha.

“Had a lovers’ quarrel?” James chuckles at this; Sam does not. It is not an extensive journey to their desired destination, and upon arriving Steve waves from the entrance, heading towards them. James greets him as Sam begins to exit the vehicle. “Wait a moment,”

“What do you want?” Sam complains, halting in his movements as he acknowledges Natasha. “I’m not gonna be buddy-buddy with him, alright? He’s-”

“Do you hear yourself sometimes?” Natasha interjects. “Like, really hear yourself. Besides, I wasn’t going to say that.”

“Then what?” He notices Steve and James are still yattering away to each other.

“You don’t even deserve to know this,” Natasha says sourly. “Not now,”

“Alright,” Sam continues departing. Natasha slams the door shut, upright directly beside Sam afterwards.

“He never lets anyone near that necklace,” Natasha saunters off, entering the building, approaching Jenkins. Sam curses internally: _fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK. This is a fucking mess._

“You alright?” Steve calls as Sam strides alongside them mutely.

“I’m alright,” Sam disregards.

“He’s pissed off,” James informs nonchalantly. Sam grimaces, before fixating on the necklace. “I’m sure he’ll get over it soon though, right Romeo?”

“Please, shut up,” Sam groans. “You’re not helping.”

“This is the officer,” Natasha is adjacent to Jenkins. “James, this is Jenkins.” James tenses up, shoulders bunching. Sam reaches over, patting him inelegantly; oddly, the awkward touch is enough to ease him.

“I appreciate what you’re doing,” James speaks, and it is heartfelt. “I really am sorry about what happened,” Sam observes how James’ eyes are trained on the bruises, tainting perfect skin. “It’s no excuse-”

“Let’s talk elsewhere, not out in the open.” Jenkins orders. “There will be other security guards in the room as well. I just want to access the circumstance and see whether it was deliberate or not. Whether Miss Romanoff is telling the truth. Nothing else.” James nods, following the officer as they disappear with a few other navy figures.

“He’ll be fine,” Natasha tells Sam. “Don’t even bother arguing against the fact you’re worried. Trust me, Jenkins isn’t going to press charges. I’m good with bribery.” Sam laughs, somewhat relieved.

“Please, resist from gloating about that publicly, Natasha,” Steve huffs, causing the fiery woman to laugh. Sam does not comment about the first-name basis. The trio chat amongst themselves for a seemingly extensive period; the clock ticks.

“Well, well, well,” Sam’s blood instantaneously boils, venom pounding through, face dropping into a flinty scowl, lip coiling upwards in disgust, as Malcolm approaches the trio. “This isn’t surprising at all,”

“DeMarco, are you not on duty elsewhere?” Steve crosses his arms over his chest, towering over the wrinkled character.

“Flory took over,” Malcolm dismisses, unaffected by Steve’s intimidation, too fuelled by his irritation.

“I hope you’re not here to cause trouble,” Steve grumbles, just as another officer approaches him, pleading for his assistance. With a pitiful glance towards Sam, Steve departs with the comrade.

“Who’s this delight?” Natasha enquiries in a syrupy tone.

“Malcolm DeMarco,” Malcolm introduces himself with a slight bow, before disregarding Natasha entirely, focusing on Sam. “I have a bone to pick with you,”

“What a pleasant surprise,” Sam drawls. “What’s up your ass now?”

“Jenkins isn’t going to press charges, and it doesn’t surprise me that it’s _you_ who witnessed Barnes’ supposed panic attack,” Malcolm does not take a moment to pause. “Back to your old tricks, aren’t you? Getting wrapped around the fingers of criminals. Willingly. You sicken me. You shouldn’t be in this workplace; Barnes should be getting punished! Barnes should be locked up! But here you are. And you have the dignity to show your face around here? When you’re what’s wrong with this system. You’re letting the criminals escape. You.” Sam grimaces.

“Don’t flatter me so, Malcolm! Putting everything that’s wrong with this system down to me? That’s too much. Too sweet, aren’t you?”

“It’s Sir to you. And I don’t like your tone,” He scowls, stepping closer to the other man. Natasha clears her throat noisily. Malcolm cranes his neck to stare at her, and then past her, to where Jenkins and James remain. He straightens his uniform, taking a step back from Sam’s bristling face.

“Everything is settled here, DeMarco,” Jenkins speaks sternly, before addressing Natasha. “Ma’am, please follow me to discuss further negotiations.”

“Of course,” She smiles sweetly before disappearing with the officer.

“I think we’re done here,” Sam moves towards the exit; however, Malcolm steps in front of him.

“I’m not finished,” Malcolm leers and Sam sighs, waiting. “Mark my words, Sam Wilson. One day _you_ will be locked up too. Just like you should have long, long ago when I caught your-”

“Should you really be in this career?” Sam interrupts. “You seem to get too excited about punishing people. You do realise prisons, jail, all this shit? It’s about reformation. Hear that? Reformation. You just wanna punish, punish, punish.”

“I do,” Malcolm utters darkly. “And the reason is because it’s people like him, the person you’re accompanying now, that destroy families. Wilson, he’s killed men that have wives and children. And you happily obliged to defending him in this circumstance? It sickens me. You sicken me. In fact, you are _just as bad as Barnes is-”_ He is unable to take a breath at the end of his sentence, because James grips the collar of his uniform, tugging him into his personal space. There is a ruckus around them immediately; officers fondle their weapons, prepared to fire as James growls, directly at Malcolm, unswervingly staring into those malicious eyes.

“Wilson is _nothing_ like me. He is a good man.” His grip tightens on the collar, his jaw clenches. Sam places a hand on James’ shoulder, gaining the criminal’s attention. Sam shakes his head and James releases the senior officer.

“Everything’s fine,” Sam calls to the other officers. “I’ve got this. DeMarco riled up Barnes.” With that, Sam ushers James out of the building, to Natasha’s vehicle. “You didn’t need to do that,” James tugs out a packet of cigarettes, kindling one, inhaling deeply. Sam watches, transfixed, as he exhales smoke, as it billows around him handsomely, as those cheeks hollow.

“I know,” James examines the white stick. “Just can’t fucking stand people like that. People who think they know everything.” He laughs flatly, taking another drag. Sam realises that is precisely how he acts: like he knows everything about James.

“I’m sorry,” At this, James gazes at Sam, bewildered; Sam does not elaborate on his apology, merely stares away from the felon, into the station, thinking about how he just apologised an actual _assassin._

“Want a drag?”

“I’m good,”

“Alright,” They remain in a contented silence until James crushes the cigarette underneath his boot, smiling tenderly at Sam. “What’s the plan, Romeo?”

“Coffee or something sweet?” Sam questions.

“Hmm,” Sam watches as James runs his pink tongue over white teeth. “I’m feeling something _sweet_ ,” His eyes sparkle, and Sam dismisses the pleasant eruption of emotion in his stomach.

“Alright, follow me. I know a dessert place close by,”

The building of sweets is cherry red and vanilla white, adorned with chequered designs and mouth-watering illustrations: soft, warm cookies; divine crepes; smoothest gelato; honeyed sundaes. Sam leads the convict to two crimson stools, gesturing to the menu after greeting the approachable helpers within the dessert parlour. They wave cheerily back, before continuing to twirl to the audible background music. It is all sickeningly sweet and merry, Sam notes, before gazing at James. Sam is taken back by the overjoyed expression on his face as he gawks at the place, as he takes in the delicious aromas and the numerous others. He grasps for the menu greedily, examining it with wide, childlike glee in his eyes. Sam’s face unintentionally softens at the sight: James, once again, seems young and carefree.

“You’re a baby,” Sam remarks, though it is fond. James glances up from the menu, a leisurely smile making its way onto his face.

“I’m your baby,” He winks before returning to the menu, seemingly satisfied with Sam’s shock.

“Back to the shitty flirting then?”

“You love it,” James then proceeds to hum to himself, contemplating his decision. “I think I might get this sundae,” He gestures to the glorious image painted on the menu, towering ice cream with a fruity twist.

“Oh, that looks good,”

“I’ll ask for two spoons,” James smirks, sauntering up to where you order before Sam could protest. He returns, slipping back onto the stool, gazing into Sam’s eyes before sighing deliberately dreamily. “You look good today,”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam dismisses, fiddling with his phone to avoid the steel blue of his eyes.

“You look good all the time but today you look…” He lowers his voice, leaning close; Sam’s grip on his phone tightens, though his eyes meet James’ unintentionally. “ _Delicious,_ ”

“And looking at you makes me feel sick. Now shut up.”

“You don’t mean that,” James pouts, and he is _too close_ ; Sam notices he is wearing a thin coating of Vaseline on his lips. Lips that look red, luscious and edible as the cherry in the deliberately edited photo of their dessert.

“Trust me, I mean it,” Sam grumbles out, reclining further in his seat, attempting to escape James exuding with charm. James watches, laughter in his eyes, as Sam almost tumbles off the stool, briefly forgetting that it has no back support. Sam clears his throat, straightening his shirt, before rolling his shoulders.

“Damn, Romeo. You really wanna get as far away from me as possible?” James is grinning lopsidedly, all too gracefully, and Sam admits – yes, he fucking admits it, alright? – that he is lapping it up like a starved dog. “It’s ‘cause you can’t control yourself around me, isn’t it?”

“Mm,” Sam grunts. “That’s right. I can’t control my _desire_ …” He feels the word on his tongue experimentally, allowing it to roll off slowly, luxuriously. He smirks as James’ eyes sparkle, as he attempts to conceal his astonishment at this seemingly reciprocal flirtation. “To punch you hard,” Sam finishes.

“You know I’d win against you in a fight though, right?” James quirks a brow, challengingly as Sam scoffs.

“You don’t know what I’ve done in the past, Barnes.”

“Would it really beat anything I’ve done, Wilson?” Sam wrinkles his nose, suddenly recalling who and what James is. James seems to notice this, sighing dejectedly. “I’m stronger than you, babe. That’s all I’m saying.”

“We’ll have to spar one day,”

James snorts, shaking his head, thrilled. Sam savours the sight of this true contentment shining from James, a rare bliss.

“Here you go,” A waitress places the soaring sundae in front of them both, accompanied by two stretched spoons. “Enjoy!”

“I’m taking this,” James declares, picking the cherry from the top and popping it into his mouth, staining his lips even pinker. He elegantly removes the stone, waggling his eyebrows at Sam as he situates the stem in his mouth; Sam knows what he is about to do.

“Please don’t,” Sam grumbles, gripping the spoon he grasps in his hand tighter, constricting.

“It’s one of my many talents,” James reveals a knotted cherry stem. Sam clears his throat, silencing himself with a scoop of the divine sundae. James, on the other hand, decides to be vocal about his gratification when shovelling the dessert into his gob; he delights in Sam’s revolted expressions and quips about it.

 

* * *

 

Back home, Sam taps a screen experimentally, before gazing intently at it, as if he expects his own mobile device to make the decision for him. The contact name glares back at him, daring him to press dial, mocking his anxiety. He can feel the unwanted sweat begin to trickle as his skin prickles: Mother. Mother. Mother. Ma. Ma. His thumb hovers, about to dial, before he tosses his phone aside, shaking his head furiously.

“She won’t wanna hear from me,” Sam hauls himself into the kitchen, gulping down a few mouthfuls of tap water from a glass, before digging his fingers into the surface of the marbled counter. _Contact them first. They’re waiting for you to be that guy. Be the bigger person._ “Bigger person, huh? Yeah, right, thanks James.” He labours back to where his phone is, unlocking it, having the familiar contact gleam blindingly in his face. He taps dial.

As much as he abhors to admit, James might be correct; James has a valid point. Hope blossoms in his chest, a flower hunting for sunshine, keen to touch that antique heat. And just like that – just with this solitary recollection of what James had said – the film of his family’s bond unreels, a spinning spool spilling from Sam’s grasp. His heart is abruptly an archive of his tenderest memories, and now they are playing: the infectious laughter of his two siblings, joyous tears streaming down their faces; the cinnamon scent of his mother as she bakes with unconditional love in their kitchen; sharing sincere secrets of his youth with his family, revealing the pigeon farm he kept and their fervent, amused reactions. And Riley, his best friend, his closest comrade. He had left him in the muck, but before they had been inseparable. Sam relishes these memories incessantly; he always has. Just like he cherishes the disjointed memories of his father, murdered in-between two rival gangs, striving to do the best for the world. He shines brightly – though his memory is faint – an icon; someone Sam always aspired to be like.

He beams at the framed images of his mother, feels the familiar yearning to see those gleaming teeth as her melodic laughter rings out, to hear her gush about his handsome smile. And then, Sarah and Gideon. He wonders whether he has any nephews or nieces now, since Sarah was with… What was his name? Sam frowns at his inability to recall; it has been too long. Too long. Too long since he hooted with them both, since he danced with them, twirling around in a circle of love. Their family and his close friend had been unbreakable ever since their father had died. He had been fortunate to share blood with such divine creations.

“James, you son of a bitch,” Sam chuckles weakly, listening to the dialling tone. “I need to thank you,” He can picture his hopeful future now: back in the arms of his family, where he belongs, away from condemning fingers and scornful Malcolm, away from perplexing assassins and _this._ Whatever it is. He feels himself getting choked up at the mere thought. Perhaps this is a chance to _truly_ leave his past behind, to dash away from the grief and wrath, to push past this barrier he had built between his family. “Thank you, Barnes. I needed that. Maybe you don’t give too bad advice after a-”

 “Hello?” An unfamiliar voice intrudes Sam’s speech. He glimpses at his phone, confirming that he _is_ dialling his mother. Perhaps the gruff tone is of his mother’s new partner, someone Sam would love to meet if it meant his mother is joyful, merry, feeling adored. Sam is abruptly illogically anxious, pleased nonetheless, gawking at his reflection through one of the glass frames of him smooching his mother on the cheek, as he eventually replies.

“Uh, hi. Is Darlene Wilson there?” Sam does not identify himself, does not utter his own name, not yet, not when she is not on the phone.

“No, Darlene doesn’t use this number anymore. She gave this phone to me – shit, when was it? – God, it was a while back. Who is calling?”

“Oh,” Sam’s shoulders slump as the optimism, the bright future, oozes out from his shoulders. Fuck you, James. Of fucking course. He jerks the phone from his ear, unresponsive to the jabbering voice on the other line, unaware of the inquisitive ‘ _wait… this isn’t that son, is it?_’, hanging up. His jaw clenches as he glares at the phone, laughing at his previous thoughts. “As if that could have happened, huh. I called them, Barnes. You fucking idiot.” He knows, knows all too well, deep down, that this is not the convict’s fault at all, yet this does not suppress his irrational, brewing fury for that man. “Oh yeah, I just went and did what a fucking _assassin_ told me to do. A goddamn assassin. And I wanna leave my past behind me and I was fuckin’ pouring my soul out to an assassin! He killed people! I’m no fucking better than that little…” Sam is pacing, pacing, pacing, aware he is a coiled spring, about to leap into the open, about to attack with a vulgar mindset. Grabbing his keys from the side, he storms out of his house, clambering into his vehicle, zipping to the station where Steve inevitably would be.

“Call them, be the bigger person, because they totally would still have the same fuckin’ number, you…” He dawdles off, exiting his car, slamming the door, attempting to cool off the steam that pours out from his ears. He inhales deeply, holding it for a few seconds, before exhaling and gazing at the twinkling stars in the sky. They wink at him. He scowls back.

It does not take long for Sam to discover where Steve is, tossing his golden head back in amusement as he gulps down a sweet beverage, clearly enamoured with his company… _Fucking James Buchanan Barnes. Why is he here? Why can’t I escape?_ He growls, infuriated as he watches Steve thump James on the shoulder gleefully. Without further ado, Sam strides over to the table, towering over them both sullenly, arms crossed over his broad chest.

“Ah, so this is what Barnes actually does at night. Having a nice chitchat with the coppers.”

“Sam, please-”

“Don’t ‘Sam, please’ me, Steve!” Sam exclaims. “What the hell happened to knowing this buddy-buddy shit is wrong? An assassin!”

“He was never convicted,” Steve retorts. “Remember? He was just a suspect. And then Zemo…”

“You and I _both_ know the Zemo shit was a load of crap, and you said it yourself!” Sam is dismissing James’ puzzled expression. The venom, the genuine hatred in Sam’s tone is unmissable now. It is not the joshing, half-hearted insults he usually tosses at the man opposite Steve, no. It is noxious. He turns upon James. “And you. You.” Sam swallows coarsely. _No, Darlene doesn’t use this number anymore. She gave this phone to me – shit, when was it? – God, it was a while back. Who is calling?_

“I don’t know how the hell you got out of jailtime. Stop trying to snake your way into the good side because it’s not where you belong. You’re a bad person, alright?” Sam witnesses it: James’ sorrow, at, not his words, no. It is his lethal tone. It is the tone that causes James’ sorrowful, hurt expression. As soon as he perceives this, Sam feels the dull ache of remorse. He _loathes_ it.

“Sam!” Steve cries, upright, blocking Sam’s view of the felon. “What’s going on? Are you alright?”

“I’m just fed up of this,” Sam signals to the pair. “Just fed up of you acting like-”

“Stop it, please.” Steve cuts in. “Let’s get coffee,” Steve commands a few other officers to keep a close eye on James. James, noiseless, observes Sam as he departs with Steve. The pair visit the adjacent café, which is thankfully still open, and a steaming cup of coffee is soon in both of their hands. They muse in silence; this allows the rage to slither out of Sam’s body.

“Sam, look. I need to explain.” Steve says solemnly, after he notes that his comrade is calmer. Regret glows in Steve’s eyes as he creases his eyebrows together, putting on an earnest and sincere expression. _Here we go,_ Sam thinks, _he’s going to kill me with his soft-spoken words as cops tend to do._

“What’s going on, Steve? Just tell me. Look, I’m pissed about this whole thing but I’m not gonna stop talking to you or anything,”

“I know,” He smiles gently. “But I’ve got a feeling you won’t let this one go for a while,”

“Go ahead,” Sam reclines in his seat, watches as his best friend takes a deep inhale, before allowing the confession to be released.

“I know Barnes – Bucky – personally, or I used to. I helped him get out of jail; the ‘compromise’ was because of me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OHHHHHH SHITTTT!!!! first of all, sam is kinda an emo character in this. wow. all the characters i've made are emo and this was meant to be fun, flirty fic... oh how it's changed. second of all, OH SHIT STEVE! for all of you that said steve was shady: you were right. let's hope it doesn't take me another two months to update this... OOF the next update will prob be quite a lot of a flashback :) 
> 
> i hope you enjoyed! idk if i like this but i never know if i like it to be fair. thanks for still being with me. uni has been busy yn.


	5. Heart-Shaped Box

“I’m sorry, what?” Sam’s arms dive to his sides, he sits up neater, bidding his rage that is fizzing up again – the bewilderment, the betrayal – to still. It does not _._ “You helped an assassin get out of jail? Jesus fucking Christ, Steve!”

“ _Potential_ assassin. And I am indebted to him, Sam. In many ways.”

“You’re lucky I like you. You’ve got some big explaining to do. No matter if he’s suspected, we both know who he really is.”

“I…” Steve fumbles for words, remorseful. “We were best friends in childhood. Joint by the hip. You know how it goes.”

“You know how it goes?” Sam squawks. “It was _you._ You! You were his best friend! His one friend that he keeps yattering on about. Holy shit, Steve! When were you even planning on telling me this?”

“Look, I’m sorry,”

“Jesus Christ,” Sam repeats, incredulous. “And how does being buddies with someone change the fact they’re a cold-blooded murderer? Get a grip, man! You have to condemn even your closest friends in this business. You can’t make exceptions like this!” Pause. “And you chose me as the fucking compromise, huh? Real nice, Steve. Real nice.”

“Sam-”

“Can’t believe this,” He interjects. “How can you justify such an action? Hell, I know what I’m saying could be hypocritical, but I was never blind-sighted, Steve. Assassins are assassins. They don’t give a-”

“Will you listen?” Steve grits out. “It’s not that we were just childhood friends. It is because I owe it to him to do something like this.”

“What? Did he bail your ass out of jail too?” Sam snorts.

“Bucky was always there for me,” Steve dismisses the remark Sam makes. “There to pick me up after I tried to batter a guy twice my size. There to set me up on blind dates after I never really succeeded in that department myself. There to give me money and food when I was short on it. There to give me a shoulder when I needed to cry on one. There to encourage me to pursue a career in art. There to support me, always, constantly. He was there for the most, though, when she died.” She – his mother.

“I understand but-”

“I’m not finished,” Steve interrupts. “You know, before I came here, I took a year in another state with my career. Bucky had always been supportive. The day I left…” Steve dawdles off, distress evident on his face, eyebrows pulling together in frustration, baby blues shining with self-deprecating guilt. “I, uh… I invited him out for a meal at the airport, so I could see him one more time before I left.”

_After surveying the menu momentarily, Steve glimpses at his watch, noting that Bucky is to arrive in twenty seconds, and God is Steve teeming with excitement! He is ecstatic to share this joy with his lifelong best friend. Humming thoughtfully to himself, he decides upon a meaty, loaded burger, before hearing a soft thump opposite him. Merrily, Steve jollily slaps down the menu to greet his comrade._

_Bucky stares at him with vacant, unsettling eyes, dull grey skin giving the appearance of dense leather; a pink tint is vacant from his typically expressive face. His movement to seize the menu is stiffer, mechanical. Steve watches as Bucky moves his eyes sluggishly, like they are heavy, a struggle to move, calm blue dowsed in ice, paler. He is a hollow shell of a man._

_“Bucky!” Steve exclaims, discarding his clear detachment. Blank eyes meet his, a fraught, stretched smile pins his mouth upwards. “I can’t believe today is here!”_

_“I’m proud of you, Steve.” His voice is hollow, unfeeling, his smile does not dither. It is plastered there, in that position, as eyes drag across the menu. Steve notices they are inflamed; he does not comment._

_“I’m ecstatic to go abroad, you know? This is great,” Steve babbles ceaselessly, eyes glittering with naïve delight, thrilled to be exploring the world. Those baby blues dart around everywhere besides the reality of those sunken eyes and pegged, enforced smile. He could not stop his mouth from moving, spilling out meaningless sentences to fill the unnatural silence._

_“I thought you wanted to go into art, Steve.” His voice is coarse, monotonous, once again._

_“Well, you know, change of heart, right? Art would have never worked out for me, you know that. It’s an impossible dream.”_

_“Just… Do what makes you happy,” Bucky swallows, chapped lips straight again._

_“Oh, this definitely makes me happy, don’t worry about me. I just can’t believe I’m going abroad, after all this time. Do you think Ma would be proud of me?” Steve observes the minor twitch Bucky has, watches as he thumbs directly beneath his eye. He maintains eye contact with Steve as he stiffly, stiffly smiles._

_“She will always be proud of you, Steve.” He glimpses away again, at the flight times luminous and flashing._

_“Thanks, Buck.” Steve beams sincerely then hops off of his seat. “What do you want to eat? I’ll order it and pay. It’s on me.”_

_“I’ll just have water,” Steve hurries over to the bar, decides against a meal after considering his tight schedule, orders them both a few beverages. He returns to his friend. They spend the rest of their time similarly, Steve gibbering away, blathering words of eagerness about his future. Bucky occupies himself with drinking, nodding._

_“Look at the time! I better get going.” They trundle out of the restaurant and Steve finally regards Bucky wholly. “I’ll miss you,” The airport illuminations and bright whites make Bucky’s eyes glossy. “A lot,”_

_“Don’t do anything stupid,” Bucky grumbles as Steve tugs him in for an embrace. “You punk.”_

_“Jerk. See you soon,” Once they separate, Steve sees how Bucky’s long, dark eyelashes are clumped together with dampness. Bucky smiles nevertheless, and it is first genuine smile Steve has seen tonight._

_“Go. Don’t wait up on me. Be happy.”_

_“What you saying it like that for? We’re going to see each other in a year!” At this point, Steve truly witnesses the abused, scratched knuckles and indigo blotches; he notices that it is not the airport’s gleam that reflects in Bucky’s eyes._

_A booming voice echoes throughout; it is the final call for Steve’s plane, demanding his attention elsewhere._

_“You’re my best friend, alright? Don’t forget that. Thank you for everything you’ve done; I couldn’t have gotten here without you.” Steve thumps him affectionately on the shoulder. “Now, I will see you in a year, yes?”_

_“Go on ahead,”_

_“Can't you wait a year for me?” Steve chuckles._

_“You’ll miss your flight,” Bucky answers. Steve grimaces._

_“I’m stalling. I’ll miss you.” With that, he says a final farewell, and turns away from his friend._

“I didn’t ask what happened; I didn’t ask if he was okay, even if it was obvious that he wasn’t. Sam, I spoke about myself and my career the entire time. I don’t know. Part of me thought if I chatted away, he would feel better. That’s what I try to convince myself. I will always have that memory of his face like that in my mind.”

“That’s not your fault, Steve.”

“It doesn’t stop there,” Steve laments, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. “I left, even though he needed me the most. When I arrived the following morning, I checked Brooklyn’s news out of habit. They named two people who had been killed in a car crash that night,”

“Oh, God,”

“Yeah. They were Bucky’s parents. Both his ma and his father.” Steve shook his head. “I think the thing that would have hit him the hardest though is that his sister was reported dead after that too. Her body was not found. No closure. Bucky and Becca… He adored her. I have never seen him love someone so wholly. His parents, Sam, his parents and his younger sister… Dead. In one night. His whole family got stripped away from him, and then me? His best friend? I was leaving him too. He was there when I had nothing, and now…”

“Jesus,”

“He didn’t answer my calls or reply to my texts. Soon, I discovered he no longer used that mobile. When I returned, I couldn’t find him anywhere. He had moved house, everything. He had vanished, like a ghost.” Steve gazes into the distance, faraway. “He was there for me when my ma died; I wasn’t there for him when his whole family died. And now he’s what he is, or supposedly, what you like to remind me he is. Maybe if I had been there-”

“Steve,”

“Maybe I could have prevented this all together. So, seeing him again now, when the last time I saw him he was a blank slate… The Barnes charm is still there,” _The Barnes Charm doesn’t wear off._ “But he’s completely different now with most things. He’s a different Bucky; he’s a suspected assassin with no motive. But I still wanted to do something for him – to return all the times he was there for me and I wasn’t for him. So, I helped make a compromise. Got him out of jail. It gave me closure, made me feel like I’ve paid him back now. I would say Bucky and I are acquaintances now.”

“Look,” Sam rubs his temples momentarily. “This makes a hell of a lot more sense now; it explains a lot of things. But you’ve got to listen to me here. Your family dying does not mean you have to go on a decade long killing spree. It is a reason, but it is not an excuse, alright? It is not your fault at all. Maybe you didn’t ask him if he was okay vocally, but I’m sure he knew you cared.”

“There was an assassination soon after his parents died,” Steve reveals. “But that doesn’t mean he is the assassin,”

“You can’t keep backing him, alright? He is too far gone, Steve. I know it’s difficult, but you need to know and remember this guy has murdered dozens of people, and somehow wriggled his way out of jailtime because of that ‘charm’ of his. And because of Romanoff. Do you know anything about her?”

“No. I never met Romanoff until now. Bucky didn’t know Natasha when he knew me. She is very good at what she does,” There is a brief, fleeting silence between them. “I’m sorry, Sam. I should have told you this earlier,”

“Nah,” Sam is oddly tranquil again. “I’m glad you told me, but you know what you need to do. Trust me, Steve, what you’ve done is enough. It wasn’t your fault that he turned into what he is.”

“I know,” Steve sighs softly. “I know,”

“And, if it makes you feel better,” Steve glances at Sam, curiosity peaking. “If Barnes found out that the only reason why you hang around with him is out of guilt from the past… I don’t think he’d appreciate that much. He doesn’t seem like a pity party kind of guy.”

Later, Sam browses the internet, hunting down a specific news report. He discovers it swiftly: large, bold letters claiming about a deceased family. It is a truly tragic tale, Sam knows, and he begins to think about his own family once again. Knowing he is unable to reach them now, he hangs his head low. He should have contacted them earlier. No wonder why James was so adamant on him contacting them; he did not wish for Sam to lament over it when they, too, eventually pass. These thoughts do not filter out of his mind until he rouses late, troubles forcing him to oversleep.  

James is there when Sam eventually arrives, bulging arms crossed over his broad chest, appearing rather disgruntled as he watches the television with knitted brows. He does not flinch, an expressionless face, as Sam strolls into the living room. Sam plonks himself down on the settee, quirking a brow as he glances sideways at the suspected felon. Gaining no response from this quizzical gaze, he too focuses on the television. Then, Sam recalls what he had spoken to the man last night in his fit of rage, over the unsuccessful phone call. Is he offended by that? Sam glimpses back at him, staring for a while; James’ eyes do not meet his once. Sam shifts, somewhat unnerved by the silence, yet too stubborn to apologise or utter a word. After a while, James lets out a melodramatic breath, while Sam holds his as James goes to speak.

“You’re late today,”

“I had some things to think over,” He is rather surprised if his tardiness is what stirred this iciness from James. James glances over at Sam, giving him a delicate, tender smile.

“I won’t bother you, pal,” He stretches his arms upwards, yawning noisily, before wandering into the kitchen without another word. Sam’s eyebrows raise, astounded that James is actually gifting him the space he has desired from him, as James creates a ruckus in neighbouring room. He returns shortly after, a stuffed sandwich clasped in his hand, flopping down on the pulpy settee, deliberately apart from Sam.

It went quite like that for a few hours: silence albeit from the television and James occasionally moseying off somewhere else, shuffling and munching. The tension in Sam’s shoulders begins to knot profoundly, twisting and turning beneath the skin of his shoulders. He steals glances often at James, who seems to be rather tranquil as he begins to thumb through a book, one leg resting on the other.

“Can I check your phone?” Sam says, because there is nothing else – nothing more – he can utter. James, without sparing a glance, squeezes his hand inside his jean pocket before tossing it at him. The only person he messages is Natasha; however, he has had phone calls with Steve, which Sam quirks his eyebrow at, intrigue peaking. He clicks on the latest messages shared with Natasha.

**Don’t talk to Sam, not even to insult him.**

_Ugh. I wouldn’t willingly talk to him anyway. What happened?_

**That is what he wants. He made it very clear.**

_Oh, James. Do you need me to come over?_

**That would be nice.**

_I’ll be over at some point. I’ve got some things to check on first._

**Ah, right. Yes. Update me.**

[Two Hours Later]

_You don’t need to worry._

**Thanks, Nat. I really do appreciate it.**

[Eleven Minutes Later]

**By it I mean you.**

_Don’t get sappy on me, James._

[End of Conversation]

Sam sighs, glimpsing over at James again, who has tied his hair back into a simple ponytail, a few threads escaping and caressing his concentrated face. Sam watches his shoulders rise and fall steadily before returning the device to him.

“So, Romanoff is coming over?” James hums in response. “That would have been nice to know,”

“Didn’t think it mattered as she’s coming here,” James flicks the page raucously. “She’s come over before unannounced anyway,”

“Still,” Sam cracks his knuckles in front of him before sinking back into the settee. He does not elaborate on his sentence and the quietness settles again. Typically, Sam would be overjoyed at the stillness, and before he had been relaxed when there was silence with James; however, now, it just seems uneasy. “Look, Barnes…” At this, James finally gazes at him in the eyes, tilting his head endearingly with interest. Sam feels the apology on the tip of his tongue, yet he recalls the conversation he had with Steve not too long ago.

The hypocrisy he would be spewing.

“Nevermind,” He swallows his words, viewing as James’ expression goes flat, then he returns to his science fiction novel, fiddling with the rectangular gem necklace. There is a boisterous noise from the entrance and Sam assumes that must be Natasha; it is confirmed with a flaming head of hair and a colossal grin from James, who hurls the book aside instantly. James scrambles further away from Sam so Natasha can cram in-between them. Sam is momentarily stunned that James voluntarily skirted away from him, used to his flirtatious ways. He almost feels as if his heart lowers in his chest, sinking an inch or two. He captures and rebukes himself for it though. Instead, he pretends to focus entirely on the television as the two comrades engage in a conversation.

“Want a drink or anything?” James offers. She swishes her water bottle around, nodding towards it, before yammering on about her day. They chat for a while until the bubbly natter quietens, much to the relief of Sam’s head.

“What did the piece of shit do then?” Natasha questions. Sam attempts not to react as he feels his ears burning, scorching.

“Nothin’ really,” James shrugs nonchalantly. “Just told me what I already know, Nat.” She whips around at Sam, crossing her arms over her chest.

“You don’t ever change, do you?”

“He’s an assassin; I’m not apologising,” Sam says without looking away from the television, forcing his eyes to be glued to it. Natasha exhales noisily.

“Look, Wilson,” Natasha begins. “Stop being a child and actually _look_ at me when I’m talking to you. How old are you? What? 5?” Sam glances at her, raising a brow. “Thank you. Right. This is the last thing I’m going to say on this,”

“Thank fuck for that,” Natasha narrows her eyes at him.

“He isn’t what you think. There is more beneath it.”

“Then why don’t you enlighten me?” Sam mirrors her, crossing his arms too over his chest. “Come on then? Why isn’t he an assassin? Why isn’t he cold-hearted? Come on? I’m waiting.”

“That’s something we can’t tell you. Not even on our sweet little deathbeds. We wouldn’t say it willingly anyway. Not to someone like you. Not with someone who aligns themselves so close to the cops. And definitely not someone I know will…” Natasha dawdles off as James’ hand grips her wrist.

“Don’t say anymore,” His eyes are frosty, hostile, and Sam is surprised he is regarding Natasha with that expression. Yet it seems that is just on the surface; when Sam looks deeper into those eyes, they are hard with dread. It alarms Sam – to see such fear in those eyes.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Natasha rubs her temples. “I just can’t deal with his crap all the time,” Sam sighs melodramatically, as he has numerous times today. She checks her watch, realising she has been here for longer than imagined. “I’m off now, James. Take care of yourself, alright?” She kisses his cheek, which he rolls his eyes at lovingly, before exiting.

“Barnes,” Sam commences, capturing the other’s attention. “You caught me in a bad mood yesterday. The truth is… I know about you and Steve now,” He scratches the back of his neck at James' surprised noise, before continuing. “But the reason for the outburst... I called my ma and it turns out she doesn’t use that phone anymore.” At this, James’ face visibly softens, understanding as he smiles tenderly, and it skewers Sam straight in the stomach – how easy is it for that man to forgive him? Why is it that easy?

“That makes sense,”

“I thought you'd say that,” Sam stares at the television again. “I just needed someone to blame, other than myself. But really, I was just hiding behind it. The hatred I have for myself. About whom I used to be.” He struggles to say those words.

“Don’t force yourself to open up to me,” James reaches out, thumps him on the shoulder. “I like a guy that gets emotional, Romeo. Careful. You’ll make me more attached.” He winks although Sam knows there is truth in his words. He growls to himself, scrubbing his forehead. “I can give you space if ya want,”

“How can you? I have to be wherever you are,”

“Handcuff me to a chair or something,” James waggles his eyebrows and Sam despises the fond relief he feels in his chest at the flirtation. The show of James’ ordinary self.

“I don’t get handcuffs, I’m afraid. Cop exception, remember?” He gestures to his body with his hands.

“Hmm,” James’ eyes drag over him; they stay low as he rumbles, “Yeah, you in uniform would be too much for me to take anyway.”

“God, stop with the flirting,” Sam groans. “Just… Stay here and read a book. I’ll be able to hear if you try and do shit, alright? All I’m doing is walking around the house,” James raises his hands at the other man, seizing the book and waving it.

“I’ll be right here, waiting for you.” Sam rolls his eyes as he exits the lounge, going straight into the bathroom. He splashes his face with cold, cold water, thumping his head against the glass mirror.

“Why is this so fucking complicated?” He grits at himself, prodding the mirror. “The man is an assassin and has an attachment to you and what? You have a fucking sense of _attachment to him too?_ You’re a mess, Sam Wilson. Just like always.” He cleans his face with wash violently, before drying on the towel in a similar, vigorous manner. He stomps into James’ bedroom, gazing around at its plain setting. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.” He smacks the side of his head, softly. “What is getting into you, Wilson? Telling Steve to treat him like what he is and now… God!” He bends out of the room, glancing into the lounge to see James immersed into his book again.

_That’s something we can’t tell you. Not even on our sweet little deathbeds. We wouldn’t say it willingly anyway._

“What is the reason?” Sam paces in James’ room. “What is the reason? _Can_ there be a reason to be an assassin?” He ponders back to his previous days. “No, there’s a difference between them and him. He is an assassin. A decade long one.” Sam plonks himself on James’ bed, head tumbling into his hands. “He says he hasn’t felt human in so long. That he’s not a good person but I am? That he’s sorry. The…” He trails off, recalling James’ panic attack around cable ties. “Why would he be like that with cable ties?” He plummets backwards on the bed. “ _Ugh!_ Fucking assassins, man! This job, this job.” He jabs his finger at the ceiling this time. “What did I do to you God, huh? Why put me in this situation? Couldn’t you just help a poor man out a little?” He blinks at the ceiling again before rolling over on his front and groaning again, kicking one leg. It thumps noisily in response. Sam freezes, scrambling up, leaning down to see the case that James claims is full of family photographs. He glimpses at the vacant space where white borders frame the open doorway, begins to open the lid.

His phone rings.

“Oh Jesus Christ, I’m not in the mood to talk.” Sam slips it out of his pocket, pouting at the unrecognisable number, deciding to ignore it. It leaves a voicemail, to which Sam clears the notification and makes a mental note to check later. His fingers return to James’ prized possession, peeling off the lid gradually.

Exposed, a rather pristine-kept image lay on top of countless more. Close to the vertical frame of the image, coffee-coloured tresses and an enormous brilliant smile greets Sam with delighted, jolly, wet eyes, as she squeezes petite shoulders and gawks at another man so admiringly it is as if she has seen him for the first time. It is the ancient devotion that she exudes in the photograph that gives away the fact the union between the pair had been around for a long time. The man returns it with sapphires gleaming in his eyes, ready to give her the stars on a plate if she requested, yet they both embrace the children between them with even more love, even more sweetness. Sam knows those are James’ parents. Sam then views the girl that grins, with open admiration at the young man beside her; dashing teeth and hair plaited superbly, cheeks crimson and soft.

“Hello Barnes,” He says to the girl. “You’re probably a better Barnes than your brother. He’s a pain in the ass,”

Finally, the young man glows, the seed of everything terrific to come. The vast righteousness within him branches out into his family around him; although those eyes sparkle with sheer mischief as he gazes back at his sister, hand atop of her head as he ruffles her plaits out of place, sending it into a wild mane. His captured laughter is full of love though, teeth shimmering in the flashlight, with a seemingly boundless joy that went all the way through to Sam’s core. This is Steve Rogers’ best friend.

James never smiles like that now. _He was a blank slate. He’s completely different now with most things. He’s a different Bucky._ Sam brushes his thumb delicately over the young face of James. He is the only one alive now.

_He had vanished._

_Like a ghost._

“What happened to you?” Sam whispers. The picture of youthful James, shining with ambition and mischief, beams back at him. It does not give him answers. “Why are you what you are now? Even if your family died, no one goes on a decade long killing spree after that. It was a car accident too; no one was at fault. Why would you do that?” James continues disturbing the peaceful locks of his sister’s hair, ignoring Sam’s questions. He continues to be so genuinely merry. The family adore each other. The photograph is a canonization of the past; young James and his family will forever be joyous like this in the photograph. For an eternity.

Sam realises, as he gapes at it more, that James' mother has a necklace looped around her pale neck. There, laying flat against her chest, is that rectangular gem. James’ young face still smiles at his sister. Beaming. Grinning. _He has killed people now._ Sam notices that every photo in this box are all facing upwards, aside from one, slipped down the side. He is about to retrieve it yet youthful, ambitious James is still smiling. Their whole family are smiling. Sam feels his heart beginning to drum abnormally; he slams the box closed, shunts it underneath the bed, hurries back into the lounge.

“Seem a bit flustered there,” James quirks a brow. “Or is that just ‘cause you’re happy to see me?” Sam stares at the necklace dangling around James’ neck. _He never lets anyone near that necklace._ He had allowed Sam to touch it. Touch his mother's necklace. “Hey? Wilson? Sam? Are you alright?” Sam shakes his head.

“I’m fine. Just zoning out, y’know,”

“Wow,” James snorts. “Didn’t know I was that boring, jeez. Think I’m gonna give you the silent treatment again for that,” He returns to his book, to which Sam is actually thankful for. His mind is about to detonate.

That man is an assassin. That kid grew up to be an assassin. His family perished; he turned into an assassin. He longed to get his fury out onto the world. _All you see with James is what’s on the surface._

“God, shut up!” He snaps to his mind. James startles somewhat, ogling at him with big wide eyes.

“I wasn’t even sayin’ anything that time!” James exclaims. He goes to continue reading, pauses, closes his book and turns to Sam. “You don’t seem good, pal. Go home.”

“This is my job,”

“Yeah but you’re not exactly doing a fine job with it now, are ya? Sorry, gotta be honest.” James grips his book again. “Go rest up. I'll miss you though.” Sam nods before making a few calls, explaining that he has a throbbing headache, lays it on thick. With its success, it is not long before the substitutes arrive, and Sam is making his way to the exit. “Oh, Sam?” He turns his head back, gazing at James tiredly. “I’m sorry. About the phone call. I just didn’t want you to miss out on your family.” He smiles wistfully. Sam nods again, incapable of forming words, and trudges out.

Sam does not hesitate to rush into his bed and sleep, eager to escape his thoughts.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay okay i know this is a short one and ANOTHER EMOTIONALLY INTENSE ONE (jeez when will i stop with the sadness BRUHHHH) buuuuuuuuuut it's been ages since i updated this and i didn't want y'all to think i abandoned it or anything. i mean i have been considering deleting it because i reread it and i'm just like [vomit emoji] about it now. but yknow. i'll update it now and see how i feel.......................................... :) dont hate me if i do GHISDFHISghdfhsd u get to see more into sam's mind here! even if it's just "wtf am i doing with my life" half the time bless his heart x
> 
> i know this update isn't my best either but i've had tonsillitis alright and for some weird reason that's when i was most productive with writing. my uni has absolutely SLATED my writing multiple times so yes this cw student is not confident about writing much anymore. BIG SAD!!! anyway hope you enjoy regardless of its crappiness and the impending doom of deletion over its head.
> 
> love u all xoxoxox have a good day sorry it's always sad anyway im a regular at this shop purely because i always buy smores pop tarts from there. what a superior move from me.  
> ...  
> omg i just realised it's so short that it doesn't even have a *** big for a time lapse or anything... fudge cakes sorry guys im rly not with it /.\


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